


Interlude

by ketricide



Category: The Sopranos
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 39,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketricide/pseuds/ketricide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Soprano and Agent Harris, post-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who's interested, I've just finished watching the show all the way through (yet again), and, though the timeline is screwy and contradictory, I've decided that it makes the most sense to place the finale sometime around February 2008. And this fic obviously starts directly thereafter. Not that it's of any immediate importance, but that makes Tony 48 and Dwight 42 (based on the actor's birthday, since one is never given for the character).

He is there, sitting at his usual table by the window, and Tony tries to decide whether or not this should seem jarring.

Two days since the hit on Phil Leotardo. It’s been all over the news. Harris must know.

And yet he’s just sitting there eating a sandwich like nothing’s even happened. Like he wasn’t in any way part of it.

Tony moves for a better view. Alone. Does he arrange it that way, or is his partner just not hungry today? Tony’s started to wonder about that – Harris – deliberate or incidental, and to what extent?

The man is as unreadable as ever as Tony takes a seat across from him.

“Tony, hey.” Slight nod of acknowledgment, then another bite of his veal parm.

It’s the first time he’s heard Harris’s voice since the phone call. It sounds the same as always – matter-of-fact, businesslike.

Tony waits for something, anything – a conspiratorial look, some veiled reference, even just an air of expectancy. 

It doesn’t come. But maybe that’s just because Harris rarely gives anything away.

Tony studies the man across from him for another minute or two – his unlikely ally – wonders just how much trouble Harris would be in if his Fed friends knew. Unless it was all part of some sort of elaborate setup. But he reminds himself that that’s not how Feds operate.

Unless it is.

He hasn’t told anyone. Hardly anyone left to tell anymore anyway – Sil, Christopher, even Bobby – gone, or as good as gone.

Harris is looking at him now. Sizing him up as well?

Tony exhales a deep breath, casts a quick glance around the room. 

“Look, about that other thing – I just wanted to say, thank-you.” Because, at the very least, he does owe Harris that, and it’s ambiguous enough that Harris can play it any way he wants.

A blink, and Harris regards him steadily, gives him another shallow nod. “You’re welcome.”

He turns after a moment to look out the window, and Tony sees nothing noteworthy when he follows his gaze. He picks at the tablecloth as he considers his options.

“Just outta curiosity… what changed your mind?”

Harris takes his time responding. Because he doesn’t himself know the answer, or because he’s deciding exactly how to phrase it, what to give away, especially in this public setting? Tony can’t tell – has never been able to get a definitive read off Harris.

He’s still looking contemplative, off to the side, slowly and precisely wiping his hands on a napkin. Then, finally, meeting Tony’s gaze, “Well, I guess I figured, it was probably going to be one of you, and I didn’t want it to be you.”

Tony holds the eye contact for a beat, trying to assess what’s there, what else Harris might be intending to communicate beneath the cryptic words and clipped tone – friendship, affection, camaraderie even? Or is that just wishful thinking on his part? Because in some ways it still feels like his whole world is spiraling out of control.

Tony looks down at the tabletop before returning his attention to the man in front of him, gives him a tight smile that feels sad and tinged with regret. “Well, like I said…”

He trails off with a vague gesture of his hand, hopes Harris picks up on some of what remains unsaid – that he understands exactly what Harris did, if not entirely why, and is grateful for it – that in a different life they might potentially even have been friends without the need for any guardedness or secrecy…


	2. Chapter 2

He waits alone this time. The radio is on. The heat is on. And if Melfi has done nothing else for him, she’s at least left him with a penchant for evaluating his actions and choices with just a little more criticality.

He could have brought Paulie. He had last time. Why? Maybe as a way of telling himself that he wasn’t really doing anything wrong – not actually informing on anyone inside the Family. Maybe he had just wanted the company.

But this time things are more… delicate. And the lines are arguably a little more blurred. And discretion has never been Paulie’s strong suit. Maybe if Sil was… but he really shouldn’t go there – needs to stay focused.

Harris’s car pulls up, right on time this time. Tony wonders if that means anything in particular. He reaches over, pushes open the car door with a reluctance he hadn’t anticipated, somehow suddenly dreading the coming encounter.

He can see Harris watching him through the glass as he makes his way to Harris’s car, tries hopefully successfully to project an air of casual authority. Like he is the one doing Harris the favor.

Harris favors him with a slight smile as he settles himself into the passenger seat – tired and perhaps somewhat drawn, but also perhaps more unguarded than he usually looks sitting with his partner in Satriale’s.

“Hey Tony, what’s up?”

What’s up? Because for all that he’d planned this little tête-à-tête – what he hopes to achieve and what he’d be willing to give up – somehow he’d never quite settled on an opening line.

Fortunately Harris doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, isn’t even looking at him anymore – just staring off into the distance like they’re two old friends enjoying a quiet evening, shootin’ the shit while delaying going home to cranky wives and aggravating kids. Tony almost wishes they could just stay at that.

But he has come here for a reason. He lets out a breath, starts in.

“Look, you know those two Arabs…”

Harris gives him a look that Tony tries to interpret – amused? Long suffering? Like he knows Tony is after something bringing them up yet again.

Tony purses his lips in irritation, continues on. “Some guy, claims to be their cousin or something, reached out to some of my guys about buying some automatic weapons – TEC-9s, whatever. I thought you should know.” He ends with a meaningful look, meeting Harris’s eyes.

For his part, Harris remains… impassive. Skeptical even? That Tony would ever give him anything of any real value. Finally, he responds, voice even as ever, if a bit weary sounding.

“How many units are we talking about here?”

Tony inwardly relaxes a bit, leans back into his seat. “Guy says, potentially, as many as we can get our hands on. For his private collection.” He allows a note of sarcasm to creep into his voice with that last statement – make sure Harris picks up on the implications there.

Harris seems to process this, taking a few moments before responding. “What’d you say?”

Tony smiles – casual, shrugs, affected nonchalance to cover the underlying unease, as if ratting out potential business associates is no big deal, not a source of concern. “That I’d have to make some calls – check around – you know. Anyway…” He trails off with a vague gesture, studies Harris carefully for any reaction.

But Harris seems lost in thought yet again, neither particularly disturbed nor intrigued. Tony pushes down on a growing impatience. Harris is always reserved – this lack of obvious interest is nothing to lose his cool over.

Finally, “Okay. You have any contact info for this guy?”

Tony shrugs again, tries not to sound like he’s being deliberately evasive. “Guy said he’d stop back by the Bing later next week.”

Harris only nods, not even a hint of the almost expected knowing incredulity at this lack of anything definitive, looks off into the distance for a while as Tony tries yet again to assess how this is going and how things might be salvaged. Is it that Harris just doesn’t believe him? Or maybe that there’s something major going down, and he doesn’t have time for this shit? Harris had said something about being stressed over his job the other day, had looked practically sick over it.

So lost in increasingly pessimistic thoughts is he that it’s almost a surprise when Harris speaks again, this time sounding incongruously pleasant, casual. “So what’s your end in this?”

“My end?” Tony can’t help but dissemble a little, even though Harris obviously knows, even though it’s been basically their MO for the past year or two.

“Come on Tony…” And Harris gives him what could almost amount to an indulgent smile were it not quite so wan.

“My end.” Tony looks out through the windshield – streetlights and city skyline – distant yet all too close. Two endings for a guy like him – death or the can. He’d just narrowly avoided death. He shakes his head as he exhales a long breath. “This could be the end... Indictments right around the corner… Carlo, you know, down at the docks, I dunno, MIA for a week or two now – may have flipped or something.” He looks quickly over at Harris, checking for a reaction – confirmation, anything – if Harris would even know about something like that anymore, would be willing or able to help with the situation.

But Harris is just staring down at the dash with a vague sort of expression on his face, looking like he’s not necessarily even paying much attention.

Tony grimaces in annoyed frustration, leans forward for a closer look, finally allowing some of his irritation to bleed through.

“What’s with you? You seem… I dunno… distracted.”

Harris glances at him briefly, then away. His hand fidgets along the steering wheel, lips part as if to speak, as if it’s a struggle, as if he’s deciding what to say. Finally, quietly, like something slamming shut,

“I’m sick.”

Tony blinks once, bits of anger dissolving into a creeping sort of dread, covers as best he can with a false sort of casual cheeriness. “Sick? What – that parasite thing again?”

Harris stares straight ahead, eyes closing, wincing, like it’s painful, like he can stave something off, before slowly opening again.

“Cancer. Terminal.”

It hits him like a wave. “Jesus Christ…” Like everything and everyone he’s lost crashing down around him – Jackie dying in the hospital, Sil in a coma, Johnny Sack, prick that he sometimes was, dying in the can, Pussy and Christopher betraying his trust in them, love for them, his Uncle Jun lost in dementia, Bobby shot dead, Tony B and all that bullshit, Melfi even – whatever the fuck that was, possible indictments – the way it could all be coming to an end.

He mentally shakes himself, evens out his breathing with a conscious effort, looks over at the man sitting not two feet away, the man who arguably saved his life. Harris is staring back at him now, wide-eyed and slightly lost – not a look Tony’s used to seeing on him – vulnerable. Tony looks away, looks back.

“Jesus Christ – how long? I mean…”

Harris swallows hard, averts his eyes, lashes fluttering closed and open.

“A few months probably. I wasn’t sure if I should…” His voice trails off.

Tony drags a hand down his face, breaths deeply once, twice, reaches up – impulse. Harris’s cheek is cool under his fingertips as Harris’s eyes open and fix briefly on his, skin soft as he trails the backs of his fingers along the curve of Harris’s jawline. He tries to think.

“You know maybe… have you tried the chemo… everything…?”

“Yeah, Tony…” Harris’s voice is soft, barely audible, and he looks like he’s fighting for control, faint tremble against Tony’s palm still gently cupping Harris’s cheek.

And it’s like something snaps – too much suddenly. He squeezes his eyes closed shut, tightens his hand where it’s slid around to the back of Harris’s neck, holding him like he could keep him there, keep him alive. His chest feels tight as he struggles to take in enough air, head feels fuzzed, palm sweaty pressed against Harris’s skin.

“Jesus Christ – everyone in my life… everything…” He opens his eyes, forcing air in and out, forcing calm.

Harris is giving him a quizzical look, and Tony smiles faintly in response as his head finally, laboriously clears, leans forward to press his lips to Harris’s temple, cheek, jawline, right beneath his ear – unsure whether it’s meant more as a comfort to himself or to Harris, warmth and security of skin against skin, unsure on second thought whether this is really the most appropriate course of action given who they are and what they are to each other. But Harris isn’t protesting.

Is in fact actually leaning into it slightly, head angling for closer contact as Tony drops one last kiss along Harris’s cheekbone, even following Tony’s movement, just a hair, just shy of imperceptible, as Tony pulls back to give them some space. Or is that only Tony’s imagination?

He studies Harris in the near darkness, streetlights and moonlight reflecting off pale, drawn skin. Harris’s eyes are closed, but his lips are parted – just a fraction. Like someone awaiting a kiss? And though it’s too dark to see, Tony can almost feel that Harris is blushing, feel the flush gathering beneath Harris’s skin, something charged in the air between them – deepening breath, that look in Harris’s eyes when they finally open and light on Tony’s – an intensity previously absent.

Tony’s thumb slides along Harris’s jaw until it rests lightly pressed along Harris’s lower lip, slight tug there – just those few inches that signify the subtle shift from companionable to sensual – sexual, happening almost beneath Tony’s awareness – gentle pressure encouraging some response form Harris – Harris’s eyes fluttering shut, head tilting, Harris’s mouth opening further as if in answer to Tony’s unspoken question – _yes, kiss me here_.

And Tony does, gingerly at first, as if this is something fragile, lips just brushing along Harris’s, Harris’s face cupped delicately between Tony’s palms, tongue just nudging into Harris’s mouth, and then forcefully, with greater assurance, hunger and desperation taking hold.

He’s never done this with a man before, never even thought about it – not even when he was in the can, but now, it’s all he wants suddenly – for Harris to be his, responsive and yielding and open. He can even feel himself starting to get hard, pulls Harris in a little closer, licking along Harris’s tongue and inside his mouth as he deepens and intensifies the kiss.

He can feel one of Harris’s hands touching the side of his face now, snaking around towards the nape of his neck. He slides an arm around Harris’s back in response, tugging him bodily closer. Harris only sighs softly into his mouth, kisses him back harder, and, Jesus, how is this such a turn-on?

He starts to break the kiss, pull back, meaning to say something, anything, catches Harris’s lower lip possessively between his teeth as he does, but somehow that action only serves to ignite his passion further, and it’s only a moment before he’s plunging them into another kiss, alternately heated and languid, ravening and tender.

A part of him is aware, alert always to potential danger, that they could be seen, could be caught, but another part of him doesn’t want to stop, desperate for this connection and release. And he’s not even quite sure how much time has passed by the time they finally do break apart, Harris looking as awkward and uncertain as he feels, not quite sure where to go from here, fleeting moments of eye contact followed by averted gazes.

Tony watches as Harris adjusts his jacket, his tie, reaches up to stroke Harris’s cheek, already missing their former closeness. Harris turns into the touch, smiling softly, looking somehow so much less haggard and care-worn than before.

Tony smiles in return, almost hates to ruin the moment by talking. But really they can’t stay here all night.

“Look, um, I’ll call you when I hear something more, okay – about the guys?”

Harris nods, slowly, like he’s nuzzling further into Tony’s hand cupped gently against his cheek. “Okay.”

And Tony can’t resist moving in for another kiss – just soft this time – gentle press of lips, Harris melting softly into him, lazy and warm.

Harris’s eyes are closed when Tony draws back to look at him, but they open as Tony starts speaking again. “So, I’ll ah, probably see you for lunch or something… Satriale’s.”

Harris nods once again, and Tony thinks he can see regret in his eyes. “Yeah.” Hear it in his voice when he answers. Maybe the same regret Tony can’t help feeling as he leans in for one last kiss, pushes open the door and walks back through the cold night to his own car, not allowing himself a look back.


	3. Chapter 3

Hot water cascades over his body, running in rivulets down bare skin, and Harris traces his fingers delicately, absently in its wake, imagining that it is actually Tony Soprano doing this, Tony with his hands roaming eagerly over his shoulders, torso, slight curve at the small of his back, caressing, a thumb resting along his lower lip, gentle pressure there, inquisitive, assessing, memory washing over him, heating and prickling his skin, hot flush suffusing along his cheeks.

He had driven home almost in a daze, and how had his wife not noticed something, anything, different, changed, amiss – some indelible mark left behind by Tony’s mouth pressed to his, Tony’s hands as they had cupped his face between them? And he can still practically feel Tony’s lips on his, reddened and swollen as they must be from seemingly endless kisses, desperation and intensity giving way to a soft, lazy sort of sensuality only to loop back again, Tony holding him close – hadn’t expected that – Tony’s seemingly so acute distress over his impending death – had even wondered if he’d really even care at all.

But his wife hadn’t even looked up from her novel, and, if previous nights are anything to go by, she will probably already be sleeping or feigning sleep by the time he crawls into bed at her side. And Harris knows this is partly his own fault – because even if he couldn’t have helped the long hours and overseas assignment he could at least have helped the infidelity – Sandra – his ‘buddy’ in the Brooklyn office as Tony had once referred to her (even if he’s not exactly sure yet what his wife actually knows or suspects on that front – just the fact that it had happened at all enough to broaden the distance already growing between them).

Funny, that as easily as they had fallen into bed together it had never been like this – not that heart-racingly immediate feeling of liquid infatuation coursing through his insides and fuzzing his mind with desire. But maybe it’s just the brain tumor, or a side effect of one of the medications he’s on. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that he could be dead in months or even weeks.

And Tony had seemed so distraught – that look of incredulity and helpless loss as he had reached out a hand to caress his cheek – backs of fingers brushing lightly over skin as Harris’s breath had caught and eyes had slipped shut against the sensation. And Tony had been so close, radiant warmth seemingly enveloping him as Tony had moved in to press a kiss at his temple, cheek, lips skimming down his jawline, Harris’s eyes flickering open in surprised confusion even as he’d leaned in, face turning as if of its own volition into Tony’s touch.

Intellectually, he’d known it hadn’t been meant as anything sexual – it was a cultural thing, an Italian thing, kisses on the cheek exchanged casually, almost meaninglessly, thoughtless impulsivity spurred no doubt by a combination of sympathy and affection – but that hadn’t stopped it meaning something to his body – this desire to be touched, comforted, reassured. And apparently something more – skin and senses wakening and responding, heat pooling in his cheeks and belly and between his thighs – his body interpreting unfamiliarly intimate touches as a sexual come-on.

And Tony must have noticed – what – some subtle shift in expression, the parting of his lips or quickening of breath? Because his thumb had shifted – just that inch or so – moving from gently cupping his face to pressed lightly, but unmistakably sensually, along his lower lip, sharp eyes carefully gauging his reaction – should I kiss here, this what you want?

And in that moment, yes, he had wanted it, craved it, had let his eyes slip shut again in anticipation even as he’d leaned forward, ever so slightly, mouth opening further at Tony’s encouragement, the electric contact of Tony’s lips meeting his and the exhilarating excitement of Tony’s tongue nudging into his mouth, sliding tentatively, experimentally and then hungrily and possessively over his own, hard, impassioned kisses that for that moment had driven all thoughts of sickness and mortality from his mind as Tony’s hand cupping around the nape of his neck had drawn him in closer.

He can feel himself hardening at the memory, shakes his head slightly as a wry smile tugs at a corner of his mouth even as his hand moves downward to touch himself. So inappropriate – inappropriate to be fantasizing about sex with North Jersey’s reputed mob boss, Tony Soprano. Because who would know better than he – so aware of the murders, crimes, lying, infidelities. Tony’s never been faithful to his wife, nor to any of his short-lived mistresses. But Tony had been so sweet, so seemingly caring and concerned. And maybe he has been charmed by a sociopath, but what difference does it make when you’re dying, when a night or two may be all you have anyway?

He allows the memories to wash over him – can almost feel Tony on his skin, taste him, smell him, wonders what it would be like – would Tony be rough or soft, tender or demanding? Tony would want to be on top, of that he is sure, and so he imagines Tony fucking him, Tony stretching him open and penetrating deep inside him, Tony’s weight bearing down on him even as he encircles Tony’s body with his legs, drawing him in closer, wanting more, wanting everything. Would it hurt? Would he come from it?

He’s coming now, liquid pleasure shuddering through his body as he braces himself against the shower wall, as his hand tightens and then relaxes over the length of his spent cock. He feels light, giddy, both somehow ashamed and eager for more, eager, like a schoolgirl with a crush, to see Tony again.

He cleans up, dries off mechanically, finds a fresh pair of boxers and slips them on. It feels strange to lie in bed next to his wife thinking of intimacies with another man, but that doesn’t stop him. And either way it’s better than being afraid or angry or maudlin.

It’s Friday night – probably a few days until he can realistically expect to encounter Tony again, and he curls into the bedding imagining that he is curling into Tony’s embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

Harris has beautiful eyes.

It’s not a thought Tony would ever have expected to cross his mind, but, for some reason, it’s all he can think as he sits across from the man at his usual table inside Satriale’s.

It’s Wednesday. 

Harris hardly ever comes by on the weekend – not that he had needed to see him for anything. He had lounged around the house and then gone out to dinner with a girl he had met recently (nice legs, okay fuck) and then gone to the casino with some of the guys.

He had made a point of avoiding the place on Monday. Hadn’t asked if Harris had been around, and no one had mentioned it either way. Not that he was necessarily avoiding Harris. He had just had other things to do.

Tuesday he had stopped by. He had needed to check in with the guys anyway. Or so he had told himself. It had had nothing to do with the fact that the blowjob he had copped from one of the girls at the Bing had done nothing to take the edge off whatever itch had been crawling underneath his skin ever since Friday night. Ever since…

Either way, Harris hadn’t been there.

But now here he is, and Tony can’t figure out if nothing has changed or if everything has changed. Because he’s just sitting there eating lunch, like he has dozens of times in the past, but now every movement seems somehow laced with an underlying sort of sensuality – the way his tongue darts out over his lips, the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks as he looks down at his food and then up again.

Other than a brief greeting they haven’t spoken. Tony considers getting up and walking away. Instead he glances briefly out the window, then around the room.

“Look, that thing the other day…”

Harris looks up, but isn’t giving him any help. Doesn’t look confused exactly, not like he doesn’t know exactly what Tony is talking about, but maybe just puzzled, like he doesn’t know what there is to say about it.

Tony presses on. “I just wanted to make sure… you know…” He ends with a vague gesture.

Harris is silent a moment, as if waiting for Tony to continue, dark eyes steady on his, brows creasing together slightly. Finally, “It’s not a problem… if that’s what you were wondering.”

It’s not exactly what Tony had been wondering. And now seeing Harris again… he’s wondering if maybe Harris had been thinking of him as he’d fucked his wife this weekend the same way Tony had found his thoughts wandering in Harris’s direction as that stripper at the Bing (what was her name?) had sucked him off yesterday morning.

Not that he would ever expect Harris to do something like that – just that, what would he be like – in bed, naked, kissing him, body flushed with arousal, dark eyes fixed on his?

Tony shifts in his seat, fiddles with a napkin on the table.

“I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” He forces a smile, as if he could laugh it off, as if it had been some sort of joke.

Harris’s lips part, but he doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze remains as even as ever. His hand lifts in a sort of shrug. 

“Okay.” 

Would he let Tony fuck him the same way he’d let Tony kiss him – that same yielding softness eager and responsive under his touch, opening for him at his merest suggestion, that same hungry desperation meeting his measure for measure?

Not a problem, huh?

Harris is still watching him, if only covertly, as he finishes the last of his chips, of that Tony is pretty sure. And is there something in his eyes as he looks up – some remnant of that smoldering sensuality Tony had seen lurking in the depths of his eyes after all their kisses had been exchanged, that invitation and surrender? 

Impulse control has never been Tony’s strong suit.

He leans forward slightly, catches Harris’s eye. “Look, you wanna go somewhere?”

A blink, maybe slightly surprised. Then,

“Sure.”


	5. Chapter 5

Harris’s heart pounds steadily in his ears as he makes his way towards the room number scrawled hastily on the back of the card in his pocket.

_“Sure.”_

It feels almost unreal – like a dream – the drive here, indistinct blur compared with the way each second now seems drawn out wire thin, electric, pulsing with energy and anticipation, yet still hazy around the edges.

He had waited seated in the lobby pretending to read a newspaper as he had intermittently out of the corner of his eye watched Tony check in, walk to get a cup of coffee, slip of paper left meaningfully beside the cream and sugar, Tony moving off towards the elevators without even a backward glance in his direction, texture and sensation of paper sliding between his fingertips heavy as concrete as he had followed a discreet few minutes behind.

So clandestine.

He could be walking into his own execution, or a brutal rape, not that he really thinks Tony would be that reckless or that stupid, but it almost doesn’t even matter anymore, his surrender to this moment and this chain of events so unequivocal and complete. Because with everything else that could potentially be occupying his mind at this juncture in his life – terrorist plots, his failing marriage, his complicity in Phil Leotardo’s murder, his impending death – it is this scenario, or rather endless various permutations thereof, that has been playing ceaselessly through his mind these past few days, drowning out all other thoughts and concerns with the remembered sensation of Tony’s mouth on his, Tony’s heat invading and enveloping him, firm hands gripping him tight, the imagined extrapolation of Tony’s hands stripping him naked, pressing him insistently down onto a bed somewhere, hardened cock pressing deeply inside him – doesn’t even matter that it’s rough or gentle, just matters that it happens – that something happens.

He had stayed away, intentionally, not sure how long he would or could keep it up, not sure if the point had been to prolong the comforting haze of fantasy that seems now to permeate his existence, or to refrain from indulging in it more directly and fully.

But then his partner had had a lunch date with a friend, and he had found himself at loose ends driving inexorably toward Satriale’s, parking his car, familiar order rolling too easily off his tongue.

And then there had been Tony.

Sitting down opposite him, obvious uncertainty, discomfiture, but underlying that… Tony’s obvious desire for… something – him, something more, something more than what had already transpired between them.

_“You wanna go somewhere?”_

Somewhere turning out to be an anonymous and upscale hotel, far enough out of the way that they shouldn’t run the risk of getting caught, Harris’s skin heating and prickling beneath his clothing at the obvious implication.

The sound of his knuckles making contact with the door in front of him echoes overloud in his ears, and his heartbeat pulsing through his veins counts out the moments until the latch disengages, door pulling cautiously open, Tony somewhere behind it – out of sight, crossing the threshold into the room like stepping off of a precipice.

He’s hard practically before the door shuts behind him, but Tony is likely standing too close to notice, sharp eyes examining Harris’s face as opposed to his body.

Harris’s throat feels dry. His eyes slip shut.

The touch, when it comes, is (surprisingly?) gentle – backs of fingers whispering lightly over his cheek, echoes of the last time they had been alone together – chilly night air giving way to heated desperation – and then, finally, fantasy and memory coalescing into reality, Tony’s lips brushing his in a kiss, soft yet somehow still insistent, his own lips parting and opening in easy response.

And Harris’s world dissolves.

No words exchange – just touch, sensation, Tony’s mouth devouring his, gentleness and tenderness sliding quickly into roughened and hungry abandon, hand at his back, pressure (or Tony feeling him up for a wire – except that that wouldn’t necessarily make sense given the expected nature of this… assignation), Tony’s body solid and hard against his, liquid desire communicated in fleeting moments of eye contact, breath against skin, Tony’s hand clasping around his leading him wordlessly towards the bed, dizzying surrender of Tony pushing his jacket back off his shoulders, loosening his tie, undressing him.

Harris’s mind drifts briefly into focus as Tony’s hand pauses at his waist – sidearm holstered there – dark ripple of amusement at the thought of Tony luring him here, this entire setup just so Tony could lift his handgun. He quickly unclips it, sets it aside on the nearest nightstand, brief knowing look and then Tony is on him again, intention and arousal obvious as he presses Harris back into the bedding, heady feel of skin against skin as they finally manage to strip each other of their final remaining articles of clothing, reality mirroring imagined fantasy as Tony settles between Harris’s willingly spread thighs.

A gasp, his own as Tony slides fingers along the cleft of his ass, meaningful pressure at the opening there, and Harris is suddenly unsure of whether or not he can do this. But then the hand is gone, and it’s all he can do not to utter a whine of protest.

He opens his eyes as Tony shifts above him, watches as Tony fiddles with a tube of what must be sex lube (Newly purchased? Newly stolen? Surely it’s not something Tony would normally have on him, and he can’t help but smirk at the thought of Tony Soprano getting pinched for shoplifting sex lube from some convenience store somewhere).

But then thought and reason are stolen from him as Tony pinions him with his gaze, predatory and possessive, held barely in check by just a hint of questioning uncertainty, and Harris relaxes invitingly back against the bedding, leg hooking over Tony’s waist encouraging him back down on top of him. And Tony doesn’t hesitate.

This time he arches voluptuously into the touch, slick fingers sliding thickly over his opening, nudging inside, so careful, and then all the way in, another gasp as he forcibly relaxes against the invading pressure that seems almost too much to endure.

Tony is kissing him again, hard, and it’s enough of a distraction for the tension to ease out of his body, for it to start feeling good. And then suddenly a whole lot better as Tony grazes almost roughly over what must be his prostate, electric and demanding and more immediate than any fantasy, his hips bucking up against Tony of their own volition.

And it doesn’t even matter that he’s practically begging for it by the time Tony finally withdraws his fingers, substituting them for a thickly swollen cock as he pins Harris’s wrists over his head, rides him hard, Harris surrendering completely to the experience, the sensation, not even sure how much time has passed before he’s coming hard, his own cock gripped firmly in Tony’s fist, hot wave of pleasure washing decadently over and through him, leaving him boneless in its wake.

He lies spent and insensate, eyes languidly closed, half wondering what Tony’s reaction to all this will be, half not caring.

Tony is moving beside him. In a moment he’ll open his eyes, look over. But for right now he allows himself to float motionless and unheedful in post-coital lassitude.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally getting around to revising and reposting some chapters, and hopefully adding some new ones. Some chapters are the same, some have minor edits, some are pretty extensively revised. Hopefully for the better.

“You have beautiful eyes… Dark…”

Tony is gazing into his eyes, expression soft, gentle. Like the kiss from which Harris is still recovering, unsure of how exactly to respond.

Because this is the awkward part – the part for which he has never really bothered to plan or prepare, because, up until an hour or so ago, he had never really considered the possibility of it ever actually occurring. In real life.

He supposes that if the kiss had not come, if Tony had, say, gotten up and gone to the bathroom instead of leaning over, drawing fingertips delicately across Harris’s cheek as he had drawn him into his kiss, tender yet still heated and sensual, tongue just nudging between Harris’s lips to slide over his own, he would simply have gotten up as well, dressed, perhaps knocked on the bathroom door and told Tony that he was leaving before walking out the door – not really optimal as it would have precluded the possibility of taking a shower or washing up, but it would at least have forestalled any actual face-to-face encounter until they had both had the opportunity to put some distance between themselves and what had just happened.

Sex that had just happened.

Between them.

Harris feels himself flush at the memory of it – how good it had felt, Tony’s hands all over his body, Tony inside him, bodies rocking together as the pleasure had mounted and built toward its inexorable conclusion… Belatedly wonders if Tony thinks he is blushing at the compliment he has just paid him. Either way, Tony is leaning in for another kiss, and Harris is letting him in.

The uncertainty is still there, when they eventually part, that lack of knowing what exactly to say, but at least Harris is now reasonably sure he won’t be met with coldness or disgust – Tony realizing too late that this is a bad idea, or a distasteful one.

And indeed it is only a soft sort of affection that he sees in Tony’s eyes before they both look awkwardly away, Harris’s attention drawn to where Tony is using the edge of a sheet to wipe at what can only be Harris’s own cum spattered over Tony’s stomach… prominent scar there bisecting the upper abdomen… that remembered sense of sympathy and regret he’d felt even then at the thought of Tony dying – now somehow translated and morphed into whatever it is now entangling them beyond any ability he’d ever had to predict in this strange pseudo-romantic sexual interlude.

Experimentally, he reaches out, emboldened by the lack of any negative response to their coupling on Tony’s part, trails an inquisitive finger down the length of the scar, hand caught gently in Tony’s as his fingertips near the end.

“You know what I learned from that?”

Harris returns his attention to Tony’s face – intent expression there.

“That every day is a gift. Every minute. And you gotta make them count with the people you care about.”

Even now, Harris has a difficult time imagining that he is really one of those people about whom Tony particularly cares, or, for that matter, that it would really make much material difference even if Tony actually did, but he chooses for the moment to keep his thoughts to himself, preferring instead to give himself over to Tony’s embrace, allowing himself to be drawn into another kiss, limbs entwining as mouths and bodies mold sensuously to each other’s.

Because when’s the last time he just lay naked in bed making out with someone anyway, and how many more opportunities is he likely to get?


	7. Chapter 7

“You know no one can ever know anything about this.”

Not that he really thinks it’ll be an issue – like Harris would ever tell – no unexpected phone calls or surprise run-ins with his wife like with Irina or Gloria (or, much more damaging really, an unguarded comment made around one of the guys) – discretion not likely something he needs to worry about when fucking a Fed. And Tony would do well to keep that in mind.

Keep in mind that not only is Harris not some clingy, jealous goomah, Harris is a married man himself, a married man and a Fed – a Fed who _knows_ him – someone he needs to watch himself around – even when they are lying curled naked in bed together.

But he’s also someone he has… maybe not feelings for exactly, but maybe respect. And he’s not exactly sure where to go with that.

Harris looks up at him from where he has been laying nuzzled snugly at Tony’s side, gives him a faint smile (smirk?) that Tony finds hard to interpret. “I certainly wasn’t planning on telling anyone.”

And Tony is momentarily annoyed that he could be someone’s dirty little secret – that a liaison with him would be considered more a liability to be concealed than a privilege to be embraced. But what else is Harris supposed to say, and what else would he rather have heard. And anyway, he puts that all out of his mind now because Harris is sort of pulling away, looking awkwardly around like he might be considering getting dressed and leaving.

And Tony finds that maybe he isn’t quite ready for that to happen yet.

“Hey, c’mere.” Puts on his softest most cajoling tone of voice as he guides an at first resisting, but increasingly more yielding Agent Harris back down to lay at his side, settling him more comfortably along the length of his body.

Because there is something so soothing and reassuring about simply laying quietly here together. And besides, he can’t deny that Harris had been an immensely satisfying fuck… strange as that thought is.

He moves absently to stroke his fingers through the hair at the nape of Harris’s neck – short – everything about this encounter so strangely unfamiliar… but somehow not quite displeasing. Or perhaps pleasing because of its novelty, because of its illicit nature – the forbidden decadence of bedding one of the Federal Agents who’d been pursuing him all these years – a man no less, and the satisfaction of seeing him writhe in pleasure beneath him as he’d fucked into him – that intoxicating sense of power and control.

Except that Harris is not someone to be toyed with lightly. And he is certainly deserving of being thought of as more than a mere object for his amusement and gratification.

Presently, Harris stirs in his arms, and Tony looks over to find Harris gazing searchingly at him, expression and voice still perhaps a bit too guarded.

“I am curious though… why you’re doing this.”

Maybe Tony could be curious too, if not for the fact that he already knows he probably doesn’t want to be confronted too closely with the answers lurking just at the edges of his consciousness, with why this had seemed like not only an acceptable idea, but also like something he had wanted with more desperation than he probably cares to admit. And so he settles on a different truth and the cloak of charm and seductiveness that has served him so well in the past with so many of his other sexual… conquests.

“I don’t know.” Stroke of fingertips lightly across Harris’s cheek, cupping and angling Harris’s face towards his. “I just… couldn’t stop thinking about you.” Kiss – defensiveness draining away as Harris’s mouth opens under his, the eroticism of Harris yielding so easily and completely to his touch, his kiss, his tongue licking its way into Harris’s mouth. “The way you felt… how you were… you know I’ve always liked you – almost from the beginning… You were always the sweet one.” His words, the memories they evoke of that night together in Harris’s car, Harris’s body warm and so responsive in his arms – almost enough to get him ready for another go ‘round… but his dick’s still a little tired yet, so instead he backs off. Maybe in a little while – if Harris is game. In the meantime, one last kiss pressed to Harris’s lips, eyes and expression now softened into a languid smile – unresisting, body warm twined around his.

“So, is this violating some sort of rules you have?” He makes sure it come off playful, half joking, takes the edge off with another kiss, though he really is curious. Would almost like to hear that Harris could get in a lot of trouble over this. But then he already has his share of dirt on Harris, now doesn’t he?

Harris looks thoughtful for a moment, as if considering. Considering for the first time? Tony finds that almost hard to believe. But maybe. Maybe this had caught Harris by surprise as much as it had Tony.

“I’m not really sure.” Harris starts off slow, deliberate – never one to give too much away – their old game of cat and mouse, and Tony hopes he hasn’t pushed too far, but Harris seems now more genuinely contemplative than reticent.

“If I was still working OC it would certainly pose a conflict of interest. Even now, since I still theoretically could influence sentencing, or possibly even delay an indictment were you being useful enough… Either way, I guarantee I don’t want anyone finding out any more than you do.”

Tony considers this, decides on a bit of wry honesty. Since it probably wouldn’t come as much of a surprise to someone in Harris’s position anyway.

“Don’t be so sure about that. I could get clipped over this.”

Harris purses his lips, offers a knowing nod. “Vito Spatafore.”

“Exactly. And just so you know – I had nothing to do with that.”

Harris looks a little surprised and puzzled over that last bit – same way Tony feels having said it. This isn’t an interrogation, and Harris had clearly not even been accusing him of anything. Old habit of denying everything when talking to a Fed? Or maybe it really does matter to him – Harris’s opinion of him.

Either way, Harris seems to be brushing it off with little interest in the matter.

“Phil – Leotardo. I know.” So matter-of-fact, as if it’s already been settled in his mind.

The snitch maybe? Harris seems awfully sure of his intel. Tony decides not to pursue it though – last thing he wants is Harris getting all bent outta shape thinking he’s being pumped for information, here of all places.

“But even still…” Even still, even with Phil dead…

Harris trails fingertips reassuringly up and down Tony’s arm. “I know. You know I don’t wanna see you get hurt. Especially not over this.”

And Tony can’t help but smile – at the sincerity in Harris’s voice, softness in Harris’s eyes, the way he allows Tony to cuddle them close together, kiss him, touch him. They lie entwined for some moments, Tony simply enjoying the warmth and quiet.

“You know I kinda suspected he was gay.”

Harris has half pulled himself up on one elbow to gaze down at Tony, and Tony is a moment placing his statement in context, can’t help but feel a bit of incredulity when he does.

“Who Vito? Get out.”

“No really. I was having lunch one day – I don’t know where you were – and he came out and started talking to me. He said I looked stressed out, you know – the job. Told me I should go for a schvitz, that he knew a good place. And then he just sort of stood there like he was expecting me to go with him right then. I could never quite decide if he was coming on to me or trying to intimidate me. But then afterwards…” He trails off, his meaning obvious.

It’s a strange little anecdote, like the one he had once told Tony about Phil and his early days working OC in Brooklyn. Entirely true and off-hand? Cobbled together in an attempt to induce some sort of desired reaction? But Vito is already long dead, and Tony can’t sense any obvious manipulation here, Harris seeming for once almost entirely relaxed and unguarded.

Still though – Vito – what an idiot if this was true – coming on to a Fed like that. Almost makes Tony glad to be rid of him and his apparent lack of judgment.

“What’d you say?”

Harris shrugs, rolling to lie on his back, apparently unaware of or at least choosing to ignore the hopefully well concealed dubiousness in Tony’s response.

“That I had to get back to the office for an overseas conference call. I didn’t wanna go anywhere with him.”

“Yeah?” Tony crawls half on top of him, pleased at the disdain in Harris’s voice, pleased that Harris is his and no one else’s, presses a trail of teasing kisses up the column of Harris’s throat. “Maybe you should have. Maybe you coulda flipped him.”

Harris chuckles low and derisive even as he arches further into Tony’s attentions, his breath catching as Tony sucks an earlobe between his teeth. “No thanks. Besides, not my job anymore.”

Tony smiles at that, feeling all his hunger and possessiveness coming to the fore. “Good thing – I want you all to myself.”

His Fed – all to himself – all to himself as he pulls Harris into another one of their ravening kisses, prepares to show him again exactly how much he wants him, craves him even – the tight heat of Harris’s body, Harris pulling him encouragingly closer, melting into him, giving himself over so completely and easily to Tony’s desires and control.


	8. Chapter 8

He is driving in his car.

He is replaying in his mind little snippets from their afternoon together.

_“Everything okay?” Tony watching him as he examines himself in the bathroom mirror… having finally, finally managed to disengage himself from the entanglement of mussed sheets and sweat sticky limbs – had never meant to stay so long, lose himself so completely – fingers at his throat where Tony had kissed and suckled – remembered heat and pleasure._

_“Yeah, just looking for…”_

_“What, hickeys? Maybe you want one right here.” Clearly amused… and affectionate – can’t help but enjoy it – even as he is halfheartedly pushing Tony away._

_“Tony, stop it.”_

_“What, you don’t like it?” And now Tony is kissing him for real, strong arms tugging him in close, dislodging the bathrobe he has pulled loosely around himself. “Come ‘ere.”_

_And Harris can’t find it within himself to protest too much further._

He is trying to figure out how he feels. How he should feel.

Because this… this is not like him. This is not at all how things were meant to turn out.

And it’s not that he can’t delineate the chain of cause and effect – the path of one event leading to the next culminating in him on his back in Tony’s bed.

It’s just that this isn’t what’s supposed to happen to someone like him – how things are supposed to go – that clear demarcation of right and wrong, good guys and bad, acceptable and proscribed, faithful, happy marriage and protection of law abiding citizens from the dangerous criminal element – all so clear back in the beginning, but now… now the lines just seem to blur and deviate.

And Tony… Tony had felt so good, been so perfect.

_Warm water splashing over skin and trailing through sudsy lather, and this time Tony’s hands on his body are no phantom of his imagination. It’s a little crowded for two people – shower spray clearly designed for one, but it doesn’t matter – just so nice to be held and touched – Tony’s lips teasing at his earlobe and along the column of his throat, fingers tracing along the contours of his body._

And in the grand scheme of things, is it really so awful – what Tony does, who Tony is – cheating and stealing from people who have probably already done the same or worse, killing people who are themselves killers – certainly no worse than religious zealots blowing up buildings and killing innocents by the dozen.

He knows it’s a rationalization, that there should exist somewhere some absolute metric by which to define morality, good and evil, even as he knows that given the opportunity he will almost certainly do this all again.

_“So, when do I get to see you again?” Tony approaching from behind as Harris finishes with his tie in the mirror, Tony’s hands coming to rest at his shoulders as his lips brush along Harris’s throat. Can’t help but blush at the desire and expectation in Tony’s voice and in his eyes, in his kiss and in the way Tony is touching him now – thought of Tony wanting this as much as he himself had._

_He turns to face him, eyes almost shy as he raises them to meet Tony’s. “You see me all the time.”_

_But he is being coy, just a little, and Tony’s eyes meeting his tell him they are both entirely aware of this fact._

_“You know what I mean.” Tony’s kiss tells him exactly what he means._

_“See you like this.” And Tony’s next kiss leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and the fingers straightening his tie as Tony backs away are proprietary and possessive, eyes set in smug assurance._

_Harris’s lips part in anticipation of his answer, even as his body feels like liquid under Tony’s hands._

_“I’ll… check my schedule.”_


	9. Chapter 9

Secrecy – for someone like him it’s essentially a way of life. Omertà. But there are secrets, and then there are _secrets_ – some things _no one_ can know.

And that is why the fact that Paulie is currently rambling on about one of his unending list of hygiene or health related obsession is not, at the moment, a source of immediate irritation to him – is in fact a welcome distraction – Paulie absorbed in his own little world, not overly conscious of Tony’s reactions or attentiveness (or lack thereof) – not watching him as he is deliberately not watching Special Agent Dwight Harris.

Special Agent Dwight Harris who is seated just in the other room having lunch with that annoying partner of his – Goddard – not actually looking at him either, nothing overt, nothing that (hopefully) anyone else would pick up on or detect, but somehow nonetheless drawing Tony’s attention and awareness like a magnet.

“Look T, there’s that Agent Harris over there – having lunch.”

And God _damn_ it because now he’s going to have to interact with the man in public, or at the very least offer some response to Paulie’s unwanted observation. Because Paulie knows about the stuff with the Arabs and Paulie’s seen him how many times bullshitting around with Harris and now he can’t just refuse to acknowledge the man’s presence without it looking suspicious or weak.

Reluctantly he follows Paulie’s gaze, leads the way over.

“Agent Harris – how’s your ass?” And fuck, but given the new context of their relationship that had just sounded way too suggestive in all the wrong ways… or maybe all the right ones.

But Harris only looks vaguely amused, mask firmly in place, and Tony relaxes into their usual routine of harmless and meaningless chit chat, relatively certain that any wariness on his part will simply be chalked up to the fact that he is talking to a Fed… as opposed to a man he’s just had sex with only a few days previous.

Still, he gets out of there as quick as he decently can, drives… somewhere… feeling entirely at loose ends, not exactly sure where it is he wants to go, what it is he wants to do. To the Bing – see who’s around, get a blowjob maybe – but he finds he’s not really in the mood, and besides, the place reminds him too much of Sil. Home, then – and have to deal with Carmela and all her bullshit… maybe not. Satriale’s – but he just left there, even if Harris is probably gone by now. Good reasons not to go pretty much any place he can think of.

Would he have talked this over with Melfi (cunt that she could sometimes be)? Would he have actually mentioned Harris by appropriate gender specific pronoun if he had? And if so, how long would it have taken him to come clean? What specifically would he have said? What would she have said? But it’s all a moot point now, and there is absolutely no one else he can possibly tell.

Even if it is something that, honestly speaking, has been preying on his mind ever since Harris had walked out of that hotel room, leaving him wondering what the fuck he had just done.

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it – instigated it even. The sex had been good… really good actually. Way better than what he would’ve expected from the normally so uptight Agent Harris – the man practically writhing in pleasure beneath him as he’d fucked him (twice), the way he’d lain breathless and trembling in his arms afterwards, all the happy, affectionate smiles and easy kisses as they’d slowly managed to shower and dress.

And it isn’t just the sex. Despite the potentially dangerous nature of their liaison, he can’t help but feel that there’s a certain simplicity to it – a simplicity that goes beyond that fact that this will all come to a neat and tidy end when… but he finds he already can barely bring himself to think too deeply on that fact. But no, it’s that Harris himself is uncomplicated in a way that all his other partners have never been – not asking anything of him, married with a career and family of his own that will no doubt keep him from making too many demands on his time and resources, possessed of a certain refreshing calm sort of reserve – he finds it more or less impossible to imagine Harris throwing something at him in a fit of temper or screaming his head off at him over some ridiculous infraction.

No – it’s possible this could be a very good thing – while it lasts. And Harris had looked so good today too – healthy and cheerful (or as cheerful as Harris ever gets), rosy cheeked, that sly curve to his lips as Tony had cracked a joke.

Tony pulls slowly up to a red light as he considers his options, the choices set before him.

There’s a payphone in the parking lot of the gas station across the street.

The receiver is a solid presence in his hand as he slides change into the slot.

Two rings and then the voice at the other end picks up.


	10. Chapter 10

_“Hey, it’s me. You doin’ anything later?” And his heart stops, breath catches as the ground drops out from beneath him._

And the voice on the other end of the line – expected or unexpected? Tony had said that he wanted to see him again _like this_ , but then he hadn’t heard anything further from him for days, and honestly it had been a relief – so much simpler this way.

_“No.” The word sucked out of him even as he’d tried to think of something else to say._

Except that honestly it had been torture – the impossible to shake specter of Tony’s hands on his body, mouth ravaging his, easy surrender to the darkness and decadence of being fucked by the likes of Tony Soprano. And now he feels an odd detachment from the situation – like a movie or dream unfurling around him – a runaway train over which he has no control as the words tumble out and his pulse races to catch what will be said next.

_“Good. When can I see you?”_

Except that everything seems nonetheless endlessly breathless and still – drawn out – blood flowing like molasses through his veins as the second hand creeps slowly forward, thunderous and inexorable, the outside world reduced to nothing more than a dull roaring hush as every sense is pulled and tuned in Tony’s direction. Like lunch today when the fact that he’d barely eaten anything had had nothing at all to do with illness induced nausea and everything to do with the fact that he was on Tony’s turf, in imminent peril and anticipation of encountering Tony himself (but what else could he have said when Goddard had suggested Satriale’s for lunch – that he’d suddenly gone off the place).

_“I’ll be out of here around 5:30.”_

And a part of him can hardly believe that he’s doing this – making arrangements for a second sexual rendezvous like he’d agree to pick up milk and bread on the way home from work, hardly believe how steady his own voice sounds – like this is nothing at all – nothing ill-advised or ethically or morally problematic, hardly believe how much he wants this to happen.

_“So I’ll see you then – the other place.”_

_See you like this_ – naked in Tony’s bed, letting Tony take him as he likes, not even the faintest pretense of resistance before Tony is kissing him and he’s kissing him back, before they’re falling into bed with each other tugging at clothing and losing themselves to passion and sensuousness.

_“Right.” And the line clicks dead, and he lets out a long breath of air that it feels like he’s been holding forever as he looks over at the clock on the wall._


	11. Chapter 11

The first time he hadn’t been entirely sure – whether Harris would actually show or not, whether he would change his mind. Not that he is accustomed to being stood up – quite the contrary. But then again, this isn’t quite his usual thing either.

But this time…

Harris’s eyes are closed, as he stands just inside the entryway of the hotel suite, as if he is waiting – silently, patiently – waiting for Tony to make the first move. Tony likes that – submissive – as if he will allow anything Tony chooses to do.

This time, though – this time Tony had known. Either from some subtle undertone to Harris’s voice on the phone, some scantly detectible change in his expression at lunch, or maybe merely based on the fact that he had shown last time, had clearly found the encounter worth his while.

Tony reaches a hand to Harris’s face, touches his cheek, Harris remaining so still – even as Tony leans forward, kisses him once on the cheek, then the other, on the mouth, Harris finally responding – lips parting and head tilting just slightly, just so the kiss is more easily angled.

Harris is looking at him now as Tony pulls away, still with that same sort of quiet watchful reserve that has always drawn Tony’s attention – always singled him out as the one to watch, even when he has clearly not been the highest ranking Fed in the room.

Agent Harris – he’d like to say it’d all been calculated – subtly courting and cultivating the man, hoping that one day something useful would come to fruition – a tipoff, a bit of misplaced evidence… the location of a rival mob boss looking to see him dead in a pool of his own blood. But no – truth be told he’d simply liked the man – in spite of himself, in spite of their differing circumstances in life – enjoyed the small talk and eventual camaraderie that seemed to come somehow all too easily even in the face of natural mutual wariness and suspicion, had never been able to truly bring himself to believe that Harris was indeed the biggest snake out of them all no matter what he might say to others.

And now they’re here. And it’s not just the hint of a subtle sympathy he can see lurking in the depths of Harris’s eyes – this is desire, heated and consuming – if not for Tony himself per se, then at least for what Tony is about to do to him, with him, as he leads Harris wordlessly to the bed in a not necessarily intentional, but nevertheless appreciable, repeat of their previous encounter, Harris’s clothes sliding off under Tony’s hands as he easily strips him and presses him down against the sheets.

The sex is just as good as he had remembered – tight heat of Harris’s body as Tony rocks into him, Harris’s legs encircling him and urging him on, the flush to Harris’s cheeks and the way he gasps as Tony presses in harder, faster, more demanding, hot, biting kisses and fingers gripping tight enough to bruise.

Harris’s eyes are closed now. They had been last time as well, and Tony wonders, that part of his brain that isn’t currently lost to pleasure, the part that is constantly watching and assessing, waiting for advantages, opportunities wonders, what Harris is thinking – if he is thinking of him or imagining he is with someone else – why exactly he is doing this… how ultimately this might help and benefit him.

He wonders if Harris has done this before – with other men. It hadn’t seemed so, last time, when he’d flinched and tensed at Tony’s first touch only to slowly relax as Tony had eased his way inside, eased him open and receptive to Tony’s hard cock sliding inside him, fucking him, as opposed to the second time and this time when he’d just melted right into it, offered no resistance whatsoever to Tony taking him as he pleased. But who the fuck really knows.

Is he gay? Is he bi? But he prefers not to dwell too closely on that subject anyway, given his own presence here, in bed, with another man, when he could just as easily be fucking any number of beautiful young women readily available to him.

He can feel his orgasm quickly approaching, and Harris seems equally breathless and desperate for release beneath him, taut body gripping his tightly, forcing him over the edge, hot pleasure coursing along his nerves and through his veins, spilling out from between his thighs as his seed spills into Harris’s body.

He pulls Harris close afterwards, positioning them so that Harris is curled along his side as he lies spent and satiated on his back.

Harris doesn’t speak, seems just as content as Tony is to enjoy the afterglow and keep his immediate thoughts, or lack thereof, to himself, and Tony finds it all too easy to drift into the dark heedlessness of sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this a whole bunch of times. I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with it, but I think it's a lot better than it was.

He is waking up. That’s the first thing he’s aware of – that he has actually allowed himself to fall asleep – here – with Tony – in Tony’s arms and in his bed.

And then as he opens his eyes – Tony gazing down at him as his thumb strokes softly over Harris’s cheekbone. Fondly perhaps? Wistfully? But maybe just calculatingly thoughtfully – he can’t really be sure – not when he knows for a fact that the hustle never ends with a man like Tony Soprano, that Tony will always want something more than what he is willing to give. Not that it really matters much anymore though.

He stretches, trying to think where the most easily accessible timepiece might be as his limbs tangle further with Tony’s – not his wrist anyway, currently pinioned against Tony’s chest. And checking the nightstand behind him would also mean pulling away from the comforting warmth of Tony’s embrace. Finally, he decides to just give up the endeavor and ask, voice still sleepy and thick.

“What time is it?”

Tony’s attention sharpens on him momentarily before he cranes his neck to look over Harris’s head. “Not late. 7:45.”

Shit. He’s surprised his wife hasn’t called already. Except that maybe today is one of those days when she simply chooses to ignore him instead. Either way. “I need to go.” But somehow he isn’t quite pushing away.

And Tony is making no move to let him up either. “Stay – we’ll order room service.”

“I can’t. My wife…” But somehow his protests sound weak, even to his own ears, and he’s still not actually getting up.

And he can tell that Tony can tell that ultimately he is most likely going to get his way – no doubt as usual – but it’s still not motivation enough for him to start getting dressed. And Tony is already reaching for the room service menu.

“So, tell her you’re working late. Come on…” A kiss, seductive and lingering, and then Tony is moving to flip through the pages, looking for the dinner section. “Let’s see… What do you like?”

He lets Tony order for him, knowing he shouldn’t be doing this, knowing that this is really pushing things way too far, pulls the covers up around his shoulders as he allows Tony to guide him back down alongside him after Tony has hung up the phone.

They are quiet a few moments, Tony absently caressing his cheek but otherwise giving no particular indication of why he has opted to extend their present encounter (another go round like last time perhaps? And should he really feel such a flush of anticipation at that prospect…). But then, “You know, I can’t help but wonder what my shrink would think of all this.”

Harris wonders if Tony’s shrink falls under their umbrella arrangement of no one can ever know anything about this. Presumably, for the time being at least – based on the speculative nature of Tony’s comment.

But, “You haven’t told her then?” Since Tony is presumably expecting some response, though he cannot imagine it will really make much difference to him whether Tony ever does or does not.

Tony shrugs. “Actually, I don’t see her no more.” But something about the casualness of his tone sounds false, calculated, and Harris can sense a new tension to Tony’s body.

But he must admit, his curiosity is now piqued. For all the years he has known the man, he has never known him well, or particularly personally. He proceeds cautiously however, knowing Tony’s temperament can lean towards the mercurial and not wanting to ruin what has so far been such a pleasurable evening.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know really. She got all bent outta shape last time I was there because I tore a recipe outta one of her magazines. Said she realized she couldn’t help me or some shit.”

Torn magazine pages? That sounded… somewhat unlikely to be the real or full extent of the reason behind their rift. Maybe more likely she had decided that such a close association with such a well-known mob figure was not to her advantage. Or maybe he had done something else of a more serious nature to precipitate such a reaction – something he is judiciously leaving out. Or maybe she simply had really decided that she couldn’t treat whatever problem he had been having.

Either way, judging by his tone and manner, the recollection seems to be a source of some irritation, and Harris considers simply letting the train of conversation drop, wishes they could return to silently snuggling while waiting for their food to arrive. Not that he doesn’t generally enjoy conversing with Tony – just perhaps not this particular topic, at this particular time – not something that’s going to make him feel the need to tread carefully, something that might potentially remind him of what a sociopath he’s chosen for a bed partner.

Still, he can’t help being curious, and Tony did bring it up. And, fuck it, there must be a few perks to having only a few months left to live and a lessening regard for consequences, so why not take the opportunity to gain a little insight into the man he’d spent years of his life pursuing.

“You don’t think that’s the real reason?”

Tony shrugs again, seeming to have regained a measure of equanimity. “I dunno. She said before maybe I should see someone else – some other type of doctor.”

“What were you seeing her for?” He raises himself up on one elbow to get a better look at his companion – better gauge on Tony’s reaction to all his potentially too personal and unwanted questions.

“What, you don’t know?” Tony appears legitimately surprised at this, and perhaps a little amused – a fact Harris might previously have filed away for later use to his advantage, but he’s not here to play games.

“We’re not omniscient, Tony.”

The psychiatrist in question – a Dr. Jennifer Melfi – had not appeared to specialize in the treatment of any one particular disorder, and none of their informants had yielded any useful information on the subject – nothing more to go on than Tony’s own mother’s opinion that he went there for the purpose of complaining about her.

Tony seems briefly to consider this admission before answering in an almost off hand manner, apparently deciding either that he can trust Harris in this or that it doesn’t really matter. “Panic attacks. My father had ‘em too, turns out. Passed out and hit his head on a cigarette machine once.”

Panic attacks. He can’t say he’s particularly knowledgeable about psychiatry in general, or panic attacks in particular, but it makes sense, he supposes, that someone like Tony Soprano wouldn’t waste his time or invite the potentially dangerous repercussions of seeing a psychiatrist for anything less than a medical necessity.

He reclines back against the pillows, nestled close to Tony’s side, contemplative, the memory of that night in his car playing back through his mind – the difficulty breathing – like he might actually pass out – like he might actually, come to think of it, have been having some sort of panic attack – not sure whether that thought should be flattering or disturbing, like the thought of him dying could provoke that kind of reaction.

Either way, Tony’s initial comment is still hanging in the air between them, and curiosity overriding caution, he decides to bite.

“So what do you think she’d say – about us?”

Tony looks pensive, takes a while to answer. “I dunno. She was always going on about how all my girlfriends were just me trying to relive my relationship with my mother. Like I was trying to win their love the same way I tried to get my own mother to love me or some shit. Makes me wonder what she’d say about you. I mean, this is pretty fucked up right?”

Pretty fucked up – he supposes he can’t really argue with that. And what would that make him – some sort of authority father figure surrogate, a stand-in for Tony’s own father perhaps? Somehow he can’t imagine Tony having much appreciation for that suggestion, and it doesn’t honestly do much for him either.

As for the girlfriends… who knows. Maybe there’s something there, though it seems Tony must never have been all that successful, given the longevity of any of his past relationships (much like the projected life expectancy of their own relationship, but best not to think too closely on that just now…), but really he doesn’t know how much credence to attach to any of this Freudian (sounding) crap.

He sighs, curls once more against Tony’s side, taking full advantage of the fact that Tony seems currently undisturbed by their fucked up situation, whatever he had meant by that anyway.

Which speaking of, since Tony does seem to be in a forthcoming sort of mood… “To what aspect were you referring?”

Tony seems vaguely uncomfortable, like he might not answer, but then finally, after a pause, “I don’t know – you know – you being a man – the whole gay thing. And that you’re a Fed.”

A man… a Fed – Harris feels his lips quirk at that – a male Fed who used to be investigating you… though he personally would have probably gone with ‘and is now currently dying of cancer, the very revelation of which seems to have been the catalyst which has sparked this new twist to our relationship’. Like maybe it’s okay now that this might be some brief little dalliance with no lasting repercussions that can be quickly and neatly swept under the rug. Or maybe less pessimistically, since Tony had seemed so genuinely distraught that night…

He trails his fingertips tentatively down the side of Tony’s face. “You were upset. Maybe it’s just one of those things.”

Tony looks over at him – speculative – reaches his own hand up to caress Harris’s cheek. “Maybe.” Pulls him into a kiss, much more tender than Harris would previously have suspected him capable of being – before all this had started – sweet and softly tender like Tony’s gaze as he pulls away to look Harris in the eye.

“On the other hand, if you were a woman you’d be just my type – dark eyes, dark hair… smart… you know, sort of… worldly.” Another kiss as Harris can’t help but smile, half in wry amusement and half genuinely flattered. “Sexy…” As Tony pulls them in close, running his hands up and down the length of Harris’s back – amazing how genuinely happy being with Tony can make him feel, even in spite of everything.

“So you just suddenly decided I’m your type?” He is half teasing now, relaxed enough finally not to worry too much that Tony will find his inquiry irritatingly prying.

And while Tony does look contemplative, he doesn’t seem bothered, and the hand still cupping Harris’s face is gentle and affectionate. “I don’t know. It meant a lot to me – what you did for me. And then when I found out… you know… I don’t wanna lose you. You’re a good man. You don’t deserve this.”

It’s the sort of thing that’s nice to hear, and the kiss that follows is even nicer, nice enough for him to decide that the last thing he wants is more conversation that might potentially ruin the moment as Tony rolls them so that he’s on top as his tongue glides sensuously over Harris’s own, filling him with Tony's heat and chasing rational though temporarily aside.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this little snippet before I wrote most of the rest of this fic, so that's why it may seem like a bit of a non-sequitur thrown in here. But I still like it, so I leave it in, and this is where it seems to fit the best.

Tony turns his attention from the city skyline and blue-white streetlights reflecting off the river to his companion half shrouded in darkness in the driver’s seat of the car, takes in the relaxed posture, features softened into a less than usually guarded expression clouded with perhaps just a hint of wistfulness.

They have been silent for several moments now, their official business more or less concluded.

And Tony finds he can’t resist, maybe doesn’t even want to, reaches over and trails fingertips suggestively, provocatively along the underside of Harris’s palm where it rests carelessly beside the gearshift.

“Look, you, um, wanna go somewhere?”

The slight smile curving Harris’s lips when he turns to look at him is knowing and indulgent, and maybe just a hint sly, offset by his voice all mock officiously serious Federal Agent.

“Are you propositioning me?”

Tony lifts his hand to lightly caress Harris’s cheek, draws him into a kiss meant to leave no room for misinterpretation in his companion’s mind, heated and sensual, edged with promise, deepening and intensifying as Harris melts into his touch, mouth opening to his, thick undercurrent of passion and desire quickening his pulse at Harris’s yielding responsiveness.

Dark eyes filled with a turbulently placid sort of longing invitation that Tony finds he wants nothing more than to devour meet his as he pulls slowly away, and it’s all Tony can do not to ravish him right there, pressing Harris’s body into the seat as he gives Harris everything that look in his eyes is offering him.

Instead he presses one last delicate kiss to Harris’s lips, fingers just trailing along his chin as he answers in a tone of voice that he does not allow to rise into a question.

“Meet me at the Renaissance in a half an hour.”

A slow blink.

“Okay.”

And Harris’s voice is as soft and breathless as Tony could have wished, eyes staying trained on his until Tony turns to exit the car.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those chapters that I rewrote a bunch of times.

He is having an affair with Tony Soprano. That’s really what it is and the only way possible to interpret it at this point, though the idea of it still seems at times beyond rational comprehension.

It’s now their fourth time together – no, fifth. They meet, clandestinely, in a hotel room for which Tony always arranges and for which Tony always pays, have sex, usually hardly speaking until afterwards, Tony always so eager to get him naked and into bed, as if he’s been waiting desperately for this moment all day – which maybe he has if his words are to be believed – waiting desperately to get his hands on Harris’s skin, his hardened cock inside Harris’s oh so eagerly waiting body.

They order food, when they have finished and after the post-coital haze has cleared – Tony somehow always managing to convince him to stay (or maybe it’s just him doing exactly what he wants – always so difficult to tear himself away from the easy sensuality and companionability of their secret trysts and reenter the harsh realities of life outside) and cuddle and converse while they wait for room service to arrive – topics which on the surface can often seem prosaic, like this current one (“You know my daughter isn’t thinking of going to medical school anymore?” uttered off-hand and incidental, but still ever watchful for Harris’s response), but which always leave Harris wondering why Tony has chosen to make mention of this particular item.

They have not previously officially discussed Meadow’s schooling (because it goes without saying that he of course knows her name, just as of course he knows that she had attended and graduated from Columbia University and had been, until apparently recently, planning to attend medical school, and that she is also now, for instance, engaged to be married to Patrick Parisi, son of known Soprano family soldier Patsy Parisi) or her plans for the future, but it’s understood that they share a common knowledge regarding Tony’s familial situation, knowledge gained, naturally, on Harris’s part via surveillance and informants, but knowledge nonetheless – that certain things can be taken for granted.

But this is new, not something Tony has previously mentioned or that he has heard through interoffice gossip. And though it seems an innocuous enough comment and one of only marginal consequence, Harris knows from experience that any discussion regarding Tony’s family can quickly become prickly.

He turns uneasily to face his companion. “No?”

Tony fidgets with the cigar that Harris would generally speaking prefer he not smoke, but to which years of investigating OC has rendered him accustomed.

“No, she wants to be a lawyer now.”

Harris considers this. “Is that a problem?” It seems to be a problem, judging by the irritation in Tony’s voice, the pursed scowl forming over his face.

But he shrugs it away, takes a puff off his cigar. “I dunno. She said it’s because of all the times, you know, you guys… all the ‘persecution’…”

All the times what – that they had shown up to Tony’s house with a search warrant legally obtained owing to probable cause? That time Meadow and her friends had walked in just as they had been leading her father out in handcuffs right before her high school graduation because they had found him in possession of stolen airline tickets?

Still, it makes sense he supposes, maybe even to be expected – that she would want to protect her father – her family – the people she’s known all her life, and whatever rationalizations she’s made over the years to accommodate and explain away can’t really be all that different from the ones he’s making now.

“She’s interested in criminal law?”

“I dunno… civil rights… whatever… But, I mean, we both know… there was a reason for all that.”

It’s ironically the closest thing to an admission of guilt he’s ever gotten from Tony, and he’s a bit incredulous for a moment as he wonders whether Tony even realizes exactly what he’s just said - the full ramifications. But it’s not like he could really do anything with it even if he’d wanted to (the confession was made verbally while we were lying naked in bed in a hotel room after having had sexual intercourse…), and maybe Tony knows this. Or maybe Tony just instinctively understands how little these things mean to him nowadays.

But that’s not a train of thought he likes to pursue - not here anyway, now, with Tony’s fingers stroking idly up and down the inside of his thigh, and so...

“You ready to make a confession?”

It’s a joke, and Tony knows it based on the brief look of amusement he flashes him before settling back into the more dour mood that contemplating his daughter’s current career choices apparently evokes.

“I just don’t want her to be a sucker.”

Another oblique admission of guilt – that anyone would have to be a sucker to believe Tony innocent of the crimes for which he is investigated? Harris fights back a smirk – Tony seems in no mood – searches instead for something hopefully non-inflammatory to say.

“She seems like an intelligent young woman.”

Tony appears to vacillate over whether or not to allow himself to be mollified by that statement, apparently decides against it, picking up again where he had left off. “I just thought maybe she could get away from all this.” A vague encompassing gesture made with the hand holding the cigar. “I mean, she’s marrying Patsy’s kid for Chrissake – you know, Patsy Parisi?”

Harris offers a silent nod of acknowledgment.

“I didn’t want my kids to end up in this. I don’t want her married to some scumbag criminal defense attorney defending people like me.” Here, Tony pauses momentarily, perhaps reassessing where exactly he wants to go with this – particularly considering it is still a Federal Agent with whom he is speaking, even if the lines of their relationship have become arguably blurred as of late.

“I mean, being a pediatrician – that would have been a nice thing – taking care of little babies and all…” His expression has softened and his tone has taken on a slightly wistful edge – regretful almost, and Harris isn’t sure how to respond.

Because of course this is all predominantly Tony’s fault – modeling this life and this culture for his children, as undoubtedly his own mother and father had done for him, as if it were really likely that they would ever choose anything else. But it’s also likely not something Tony wants to hear – especially coming from someone like him (someone who is right now doing something he would certainly rather his own children never find out about – and isn’t that a thought on which he would prefer not to dwell), so Harris holds to his now slightly more awkward silence, shifts his gaze to look somewhere other than at Tony.

They are silent a moment – long enough for Harris to wonder if he should say something, anything, even if he has no idea exactly what it is that Tony would want to hear.

But he is saved by the sensation of the backs of Tony’s fingers grazing gently across his cheek, drawing his attention, Tony’s expression softened and conciliatory when Harris turns to face him.

“Hey, sorry – I didn’t mean to…”

Harris isn’t quite sure what he’s apologizing for, and probably neither is Tony, but it doesn’t matter as he raises a hand to reciprocate Tony’s gesture, leans in for a kiss.

“It’s okay.”

Tony smiles and draws him in closer.

And now all that remains for their ritual to be complete is for their dinner to arrive so they can eat, kiss and cuddle, clean themselves up, dress, and then Tony can convince him (inform him) of the fact that they will be seeing each other again, soon, his hands and mouth moving over Harris’s throat and body making plain his desire for another encounter, making it seem he can barely stand to let Harris out of his reach long enough for an additional separate rendezvous to even be an issue.


	15. Chapter 15

“So, tell me something.”  

Because what does he really know about Agent Harris – this man to whom he’s recently found himself more and more drawn.  He is married, presumably somewhat unhappily, if that phone call in his car that night and his current presence here are anything to go by.  He has (some unspecified number of) kids – that he’s mentioned a few times in passing, but never discussed in any detail.  

He has cancer – and is dying from it.  But that’s not exactly something he wants to get into right now.

“About what?”  Harris is regarding him with a look of mild curiosity – always mild with him – controlled – except maybe for when he can barely catch his breath when Tony is fucking him.  And Tony likes that.

He shrugs, tries not to look like this should be taken too seriously – like he really wants to know – like it means anything.  

“About you.  I hardly know anything about you.  You know my whole family history.”  As they’d just established, and not for anywhere near the first time, with their recent conversation about Meadow.  Which he’s still not entirely sure why he even just brought that up anyway.

Harris looks faintly amused, looks away.  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Tony shrugs again.  “Tell me anything.”  Tries to figure out what exactly it is that he actually specifically wants to know.  “Where’re you from?  You born in Jersey?”  Probably not that, but at least maybe it’s a start.

Harris still looks perhaps a bit quizzical and uncertain about this turn in the conversation, but replies gamely enough.  “I grew up in Pennsylvania – outskirts of Harrisburg.”

The country – that sounds uninteresting.  He decides to try again.  “So you go to school there?  Penn State – wherever?”

“University of Pennsylvania.”

U. Penn.  He’s pretty sure Meadow applied there.  He’s pretty sure she didn’t get in.  He doesn’t mention this – but wonders obliquely if somehow Harris knows already. 

Either way, he has the grace not to look smug.

“What about your family?  Mother, father... background?”

A blink, a moment, and then, “My father’s Irish, and my mother’s Italian.  He’s an engineer, she’s a homemaker.  I have two brothers and a sister.”  And now Harris definitely does seem amused.

Which annoys him somewhat, though he can’t exactly put his finger on why.  But it does catch his attention that Harris is “Italian, huh?  How come you never mentioned it?”

Harris shrugs, looking somewhat nonplussed.  “It… never really came up.  Besides, I know how much you like Italian-Americans working for the FBI.”  Finishes with a hint of a wry smile.

Tony considers this, allows his thoughts to take a malicious turn.  “How is Agent Grasso these days?”

Hopefully stuck working in the mailroom sweeping up or whatever the fuck happens to shitty agents making a living preying on their own people.

Which is not a category he’s ever considered Agent Harris for, though he’s not really sure he can bring himself to now either.

Harris’s look is somewhat reproachful, like he disapproves of Tony’s animosity, though his tone remains blandly neutral.  “I couldn’t say.  I haven’t really spoken to him in a year or two.”

“What, you and him didn’t stay friends after you got transferred?”  

“We weren’t really friends before I was transferred.”  

And it’s something about Harris’s too matter-of-fact answer or maybe just his tone of voice that makes Tony feel somewhat deflated but still riled up – like he’d wanted him to say something derisive about Grasso, something scandalous or insulting, some nefarious little bit of gossip about how secretly awful he is that Harris would take pleasure in divulging because –

“You know, what the fuck was his problem anyway?”  Something to justify Tony’s opinion of him.

“What problem?”  But instead Harris just looks confused and somewhat disinterested.

“I don’t know.  Him and Frank… Cubitso.  All that shit with the Green Grove tapes.  I know that wasn’t your idea.”  But he gives Harris a secretly appraising look just in case it had been.  Decides it hadn’t.

Because Harris looks only abstractly contemplative, like it’s not something he’s ever given much thought to before and he’s trying to figure it out.  “Well, I don’t think like you very much.  I think they feel it reflects poorly on them as Italian-Americans when other Italian-Americans choose to participate in organized crime, the Mafia…”

“Hey – there is no Mafia.”  But who’s he kidding, and one look from Harris and he lets it drop, changes tacks.

“You’re half Italian.   It doesn’t bother you?”

Harris shrugs slightly.  “I don’t see how what you choose to do with your life has any effect on me.  Other than from a purely law enforcement standpoint that is.”

And he’s just trying to decide if that last bit had been a joke or not, because sometimes it’s hard to tell with Harris, when it occurs to him that this is probably not the best use of their not unlimite d amount of time together, especially not when the edge of the bathrobe Harris has pulled loosely around himself has just now slid those last few inches necessary to reveal a tantalizing swath of skin just begging for attention, and that maybe this is all he needs to know about Harris for the time being anyway.

He leans in closer.  “Nothing I do has any effect on you, huh?”  Allows his fingertips to trail suggestively up the inside of Harris’s thigh.

A slow smile creeps across Harris’s face as his eyes flutter closed, thick, dark lashes fanning across his cheeks, even as he makes what Tony considers to be a rather halfhearted attempt to swat his hand aside, his expression somehow both sensual and censorious, but entirely inviting.  

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah – what did you mean?”  And moving in closer he kisses Harris’s throat, suckling right where he can feel the pulse beating steadily against his lips, low vibration as Harris moans in pleasurable acquiescence, barely managing to extricate himself long enough to speak.

“I meant that…”  

But Tony doesn’t let him finish, instead captures Harris’s mouth in a demanding and impassioned kiss, because they’ve certainly got at least a little time left to fool around before room service shows up, and Tony intends to take full advantage of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meadow talks about her college acceptances in S2E10, just FYI.


	16. Chapter 16

“Everything okay?”

It’s not the first time a phone call from Carmela has interrupted one of their trysts, but generally Tony seems to shrug them easily aside – easy lie about hanging with the guys, having an important meeting and needing to work late, and then they’re back to cuddling or kissing or fucking or whatever it is they had just been doing.

But this time the exchange seems to have been a little more affecting and the sour expression settling over Tony’s features does not bode particularly well for the rest of the evening.

Tony tosses the cell phone roughly aside on the bedside table.  “I know she’s my wife, and the mother of my kids and all, but Carmela can be a real fucking pain in the ass sometimes.”

Harris purses his lips, looks awkwardly to the side to avoid meeting Tony’s gaze, doesn’t know exactly what to say to that.   _Well, maybe things would go a little smoother if you weren’t constantly lying to her and cheating on her…_ except that he doesn’t have much room to talk since he’s more or less doing the exact same thing at the moment.  And it’s hardly a response likely to improve Tony’s mood.  And so he declines to comment.  Sneaks a look to see if Tony has relaxed any yet, and finds that he unfortunately has not.

“The whole point of us gettin’ back together and all was so that… you know… that we could have our… home life back.  But good fuckin’ luck with that.  She’s not even there half the time.  I can’t even remember the last time I had a decent meal at home.”

Finds in fact that, if anything, Tony has only wound himself up even further with thoughts of Carmela’s apparent faults and shortcomings.

He shifts position, tries tentatively to redirect Tony’s attention.  “Well, you’re… not at home either.”

“It wouldn’t fuckin’ matter if I was.  She’s out – looking at… who the fuck knows what – some shit for that house of hers she’s remodeling.  All she wanted was did I call the guy.”  Here Tony cuts off abruptly, and Harris can only guess disinterestedly what that’s about – some underhanded business dealing about which he, at this point, could not care less, no doubt.  “Fucking bitch.  I’m the one laying out for all this shit, and do I ever see anything in return?  Do I ever get my piece?  No – it’s all ‘it’s my money that I earned for my future’.”

And here his angry tirade finally tapers off into a brooding sulk and withering glower, and Harris wonders if they should just write the evening off entirely and go home (or wherever else Tony might go when he’s not with him, and probably not going immediately home to his wife), if there’s any graceful way to get out of this without it looking like what it actually is.

But he isn’t sure there is.

And in the past Tony has seemed to… appreciate… or at least to respond reasonably well to having someone with whom to discuss his various interpersonal issues, so…

“Why do you do it then?”

Tony scrunches up his face, fidgeting with the bedding, and for a moment Harris can’t decide whether it’s in annoyance or in contemplation, but then, “I dunno.  It was what she wanted… when we… got back together.”

He isn’t quite sure what that means, other than perhaps Carmela’s price for their reconciliation?  But before he can decide whether or not to ask for elaboration on the subject Tony continues on.

“When I was… on my own… I dunno.  I had this… Guatemalan… come in to cook and clean and shit.  She wasn’t very good – always fucking things up.  So I thought…  But, I mean, it wasn’t just that…  I guess I kind of missed it – married life.  And for the kids…”

And there’s a lot Harris could say here, on the subject of dysfunctional marriages barely holding themselves together that might do just as well if allowed to fall completely apart – that his own wife probably would have left him already had she not felt guilty over the idea of divorcing a dying man, that the recently discovered fact (and hadn’t that been a fun conversation) that his wife had had an affair of her own while he’d been assigned overseas had basically made him quit caring either way, that he understands arrangements of convenience that nonetheless often seem more inconvenient than not.

But he doesn’t want to get into any of that with Tony.  Is pretty sure that Tony has neither the interest in nor patience for hearing any of that even if he felt like sharing.  Which he doesn’t.  And so, instead…

“Well I’m sure they appreciate it.”

“Yeah…”  And it’s unenthusiastic and morose enough that Harris looks surreptitiously around for where his clothes might have landed on the floor, thinks what pretense he might come up with for leaving early, much as he typically enjoys his assignations with Tony – the brief interludes of forgetful sensuality they usually provide.

But a hand on his thigh draws his attention, and when he looks over Tony’s expression is noticeably softer.

“Hey, look, forget about that shit.  Let’s… we’re here – let’s enjoy the evening.  C’mere…”  And he can’t help smiling at that – either in wry amusement at Tony’s mercurial temperament or in genuine pleasure at the hand now cupping his face and drawing him in for a kiss, soft but still impassioned, finds it all too easy to do as Tony says and forget for a moment all the things that’ve gone wrong in his life recently.


	17. Chapter 17

And it’s just as Tony is kissing him softly on the cheek, lips brushing lightly across skin in promise of what’s to come that another sudden shock of pain lancing through his skull causes him to wince and his breath to catch.

And Tony to pull away, giving him an assessing once over.  “You okay?”

Harris nods, tries to force a reassuring smile.  “Yeah.  Long day.”  Brain tumor, more likely, actually, but Tony has never mentioned his… condition… again ever since that night in his car, and so Harris presumes that he doesn’t really want to hear about it.  Either way, it has been a long day.

But Tony doesn’t look too convinced, is still holding back, expression critical and fingertips just lightly resting against Harris’s wrist.  “You sure?”

Harris waves off his (feigned?) concern with a vague gesture.  “Yeah, just… work shit…”  Vague explanation that Tony will no doubt find not worth pursuing – hopefully not worth the distraction. Wouldn’t want to ruin this – much preferring to spend his evening here with Tony, headache notwithstanding, than amidst the awkwardness and tension at home, his increasingly suspicious wife at turns angry and pitying, but mostly just distant and cold now, his kids not really knowing how to act around him.  

And hopefully the Percocet will kick in soon anyway so it will all be immaterial.

And Tony is just now taking his hand and leading him towards the bed, and so Harris relaxes into his grip.  And his “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to” sounds adequately dismissive as Tony is helping him out of his jacket and sliding his hands up underneath the tails of Harris’s recently untucked shirt, gliding them over bare skin and sending little shivers of anticipation up and down Harris’s spine.

And Harris knows this is most likely code for “I don’t really want to be bothered with your problems,” is only amused by this, because, truth be told, he doesn’t really want to be bothered with his problems right now either.  

He leans forward, kisses Tony delicately on the lips.  “I’ll spare you the details.”

Tony smiles at that, caresses his cheek, but still looks a little ambivalent, uncertain.  “Nothin’ I need to worry about I hope.”

Harris blinks, puzzled, not really sure what Tony’s asking him.

“You know – terrorists – all that shit.”  Not really sure if that’s meant jokingly or seriously, if Tony’s concern is for Harris or (more likely) himself.

Either way, he decides to take the question at face value.  “Oh.  No.  Besides, of all the reasons you should have for leaving New Jersey and never coming back, I can’t imagine a possible terrorist attack  would rank very highly.”

And now it’s Tony’s turn to look at him like he can’t decide if  _ he’s _ joking or not.  “Yeah – funny.  I hope you have more success tracking them down than… you know…”

Harris raises an eyebrow at the probable destination of Tony’s abruptly derailed train of thought.  “What, than you?”

Finds it amusing, or perhaps interesting, that Tony is becoming more and more lax around him about things like that, more and more forgetful.  But he always manages to catch himself in time.

Tony just shrugs though, offers a lopsided grin.  “Other people who might have been engaged in some other… illegal… activities.  Whatever.”  And now he definitely is using humor to mask whatever discomfort he must feel coming so close to discussing his own criminal activities with a Federal Agent.

But it doesn’t really matter – it’s been a long time since he’s really cared one way or another about chasing down gangsters.  “We do have somewhat more leeway investigating terrorism than we did OC.”

Tony’s hands still on his thighs, halting their progress towards unfastening Harris’s belt.  “Really?”  

And unfortunately that seems to have actually caught Tony’s interest, because fortunately the painkillers are finally starting to kick in, and the last thing in the world Harris wants to do right now is sit around discussing the various legalities surrounding differing modes of government surveillance.  Certainly not when he could be getting laid and then drowsing peacefully in Tony’s arms for an hour or two.

He edges in closer, sliding a hand around Tony’s and lacing their fingers together, not wanting to seem overly forward, always instinctually allowing Tony to make all the first moves in their encounters together – the way he assumes Tony would prefer things between them – just enough to let Tony feel his willingness and invitation.  

“I guarantee you – it’s nothing you would find very interesting.  Or relevant.”  And he adds an extra emphasis on that last bit just so Tony will know that there’s absolutely no benefit to himself in pursuing this line of conversation.

Tony holds his gaze a moment, as if considering whether to inquire further, thumb caressing absently over Harris’s palm where their hands are joined together.  But then the moment passes, and the smile returns to Tony’s face as his arms slide around Harris’s back, drawing him in close, his mouth seeking out Harris’s in a soft but meaningful kiss.  “So is there… anything I can do to help you with your headache?”

Harris smiles as their kiss reconnects, as Tony maneuvers him to lie on his back, Tony above him, warm and reassuring.  “Maybe…”

As Tony finally resumes slipping him the rest of the way out of his clothes, slipping his tongue into Harris’s mouth and his fingers and then his cock into Harris’s eager body, the cares and concerns of the outside world slipping, for at least these few forgetful moments, away as Tony gives him everything he had wanted and needed. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little thing I wrote a year ago. I don’t know that it necessarily belongs right here, but I just thought I’d throw it in. I just rewatched The Devil’s Advocate.

“You know what Carmela said to me one time?”

Harris obliges him with a look of mild inquiry.

“She said I was gonna go to hell when I die.  You believe that shit?”

And it’s as close as he can bring himself to asking the real questions.   _Are you afraid to die?  What do you think will happen to you when you do?_

Or maybe it’s just idle chit chat with the man he’s incongruously started thinking of as being one of his closest friends.  One or the other.

“I mean, do you think I’m going to hell?”  When Harris’s only response to his initial query is that ‘I’m not really sure exactly what sort of answer you’re looking for’ look, like he can’t quite decide whether it had been meant as a rhetorical question or not.

“Do you believe in hell?”  And Harris still seems some combination of surprised and puzzled – that little furrow creasing between his brows.

“I – no.  I don’t know.  Just, do you think I’m the sort of person who belongs there?”

“You’re talking about hell like in the Bible?”

“Yeah.”  Though he doesn’t know what other sort of hell there is or why it should even matter.  Except that probably Harris is just stalling for time while he thinks of some way to say ‘yes’ that still sounds like ‘no’.  Or maybe ‘no’ that sounds like ‘yes’.

“I think the people who go there are the people who don’t believe in the Bible.”  And that’s a pretty damn good non-answer because he’s not even sure what the fuck that’s even supposed to mean.

“What?”

“Those are the people who go to hell.  According to the Bible.”  Harris appears pretty sure of his facts, and pretty unapologetic over the fact that he’s clearly being deliberately evasive and intentionally not giving any kind of meaningful answer to his question, and it’s slowly becoming quite infuriating, especially since Harris is just now sitting there looking so cool and collected and just a little bit confused over why Tony would find this all so aggravating.

“What about the murders and, and the rapists and… whatever?”

“I think that’s where the whole salvation thing comes in – Jesus, the crucifixion, resurrection…”  And he can’t quite make out whether Harris is being serious or not – that always so reserved demeanor of his – so guarded and careful – and could Harris really believe in all that shit, and if he does, does he really want to know about it?

“Look I’m not asking about all that.  All I’m asking is if you think I’m a terrible person – that’s all.”

And as Harris favors him with a look of mild disapproval, like this is a subject they’ve both somehow tacitly agreed not to bring up, Tony tries to forget the fact that that hadn’t really even been what he’d originally been asking about anyway – that what he’d really meant to ask was ‘do you think you’ll go to heaven when you die’, and ‘do you think I’ll be there with you one day?’


	19. Chapter 19

“Hey, lemme ask you something.”

He shoots Tony a look.  It is their twelfth time together (thirteenth?  fourteenth? – enough that he is no longer actively bothering to keep close track), and he is quietly enjoying the last of his chocolate crème brûlée (which is really delicious here, though he does not always feel well enough to fully enjoy it) while Tony flips mindlessly through the channels on TV (or maybe not so mindlessly, apparently).

And it doesn’t often happen that Tony tries to wheedle information out of him – not much anymore anyway, and especially not when they are lying half naked in bed after just having fucked (because certainly it is nothing more than just that, all the cuddling and more than usually personal conversations notwithstanding – love surely not something that Tony Soprano actually does), but he can sense that things are now headed in that direction, and it’s enough to make him almost reevaluate this whole situation – that question of what are they really doing here.

But Tony meets his gaze with a look of dismissive exasperation.  “Not about that.”  Pauses briefly as if he is still not entirely decided on whether or not he really wants to ask.  “Look, I just wanna know – would you still be doing this if you didn’t think you were gonna… you know… soon?”

_Die soon?_

And the easy answer is of course not, because how else would this ever even have happened, ever even have gotten started.

_Heated kisses exchanged in the cold darkness even as the knowledge of his own imminent demise is still sinking in, all those worrisome maybes from the last two years coalescing into ultimately deadly certainties._

But he knows Tony well enough to know that that’s not what he wants to hear – not what he was asking.

Wants to hear the answer to that question that sometimes circulates its way through his own mind (because of course it does) – that question to which the answer should surely always be and always have been an obvious and emphatic ‘no’, but to which, if he’s honest with himself, is more and more becoming a rather equivocal ‘maybe’.  As in, ‘maybe’ he would keep doing this even if he were suddenly, miraculously cured, and everything that had transpired in these past few months could be magically whisked away into nonexistence if he so desired, because ‘maybe’ he is enjoying this a little more than he should, a little more than he’d expected, and ‘maybe’ he has started to feel something for Tony, a feeling which Tony unfortunately maybe (or maybe very probably) does not or cannot return, but which Harris sometimes nonetheless likes to imagine is there.

But then he remembers that he doesn’t really owe Tony the truth, not that one anyway, and that the truth, depending on what it is, might not be what Tony really wants to hear anyway.

Because he’s always assumed that their current relationship is based around some measure of intentional self-deception – Harris allowing himself to believe, for the moments that it matters, that Tony cares for him in some way – allowing himself to feel the love and desire he hasn’t gotten from his wife in longer than he cares to admit, even to himself – and that this is not a terrible idea, is real and something that could actually last.  And Tony allowing himself to believe… what?  Something that would surely be dispelled were Harris to answer with something other than what Tony is hoping to hear, since it’s apparently important enough to him that it’s actually been on his mind, important enough to bring himself to actually ask, hesitantly, like he might be afraid to hear the real answer.

Harris looks down at where he is toying with his spoon in his nearly empty dessert dish, looks up at Tony who is half watching him even as he’s pretending to be paying close attention to a commercial on TV.  

“Would you be doing it?”  Because he still doesn’t know what to say – what he should say or what he wants to say.

Tony clicks off the TV, turns to face him more fully.  “Hey, I asked you first.”

“You came on to _me_.”  

Even though it’s defensive and not really an answer and really just another way of asking Tony would _he_ still be doing it.  And even if it’s not necessarily an entirely accurate representation of just exactly what had transpired that night anyway, and both of them know it.  

“I wasn’t coming on to you.”

Because even though Tony had been the one to kiss him first, both platonically, and then sexually, the invitation had been plainly there…

“Not at first.”  But after a while though – after that first contact had made him want Tony’s concern to be genuine, his touch more than superficial, his kiss more than merely friendly and perfunctory.

Tony is giving him a little smirk now, impatience warring with playfulness.  “So if it’d happened under any other context…?”  Like maybe he’s starting to suspect that Harris can’t bring himself to say ‘no’, and wants finally to hear him say ‘yes’.

Harris breaks the eye contact, looks away as he exhales a long breath.  “I don’t really know.  I… can’t really imagine it occurring… under any other circumstances.”  Which is technically not a lie, as he’d technically never actually considered any particular alternate scenario in which Tony would make a pass at him, and what exactly his response would be, had always thought more about their present current situation.

“So then you and me now?”  And even though he can tell that Tony is getting frustrated and a little annoyed, there’s still something sweet about it – that Tony wants him to want him maybe – that Tony wants to hear him say it – that Tony is concerned enough even to ask.

And so he feels he can allow this – just this one little admission –

“I don’t know…  But if I found out today that I wasn’t going to… I don’t know that I’d want to stop.”

And it’s not quite the truth and not quite a lie.  Because really there’s so much more to the situation than just ‘would you still be with me even if you thought you weren’t going to die’.  There’s the fact that at least two of his fellow agents have expressed some suspicions regarding his involvement with Tony, and not involvement of the romantic nature either, and that this could eventually lead to serious repercussions were he to remain around long enough for them to come to fruition.  There’s the fact that he’s more or less certain at this point that his wife knows he’s fooling around, if not with whom, and if he weren’t dying he would most assuredly be headed for a messy divorce (which truthfully is where he’d probably be heading anyway, affair with Tony or no, if he’s really being honest with himself, but even so...).  There’s the reality that he’s essentially been painting himself into a corner for the last few months now, and even were he to somehow manage to survive, his life would surely come crashing down around him before too long, completely aside from concerns of ‘do I love Tony and does he love me’, or ‘will Tony ever leave his wife, or will he just get bored and move on’, or ‘is Tony really the sort of person I should actually have in my life’.

But it seems to please Tony, well enough anyway, if the satisfied little smile forming over his lips and the kiss that follows is anything to go by, soft and affectionate and sweet.  Though he can’t shake the feeling that somehow there had been something sad lurking in the depths of Tony’s eyes, like maybe he’d been hoping for more, for something else.

But better to put that out of his mind, as their kiss turns sensual and insistent and Tony moves to settle himself between his thighs, forget about hypothetical situations and alternate eventualities because really it’s as irrelevant as all his other concerns as Tony’s tongue pushes its way inside his mouth and Tony’s fingers slide their way along the cleft of his ass, and much better to pretend for the moment that he is safe and happy with someone who loves and cares for him, that this is real and something more than desperation and yet one more of Tony’s many fleeting and meaningless dalliances.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because what would The Sopranos be without the trippy dream sequences...

_He needs to get to the hospital… He no longer remembers how exactly he came to this awareness, but he is sure that Harris is there – that Dwight is there, and that he is dying… That he will soon die, and that he needs to get there before that happens – see him one last time – one last kiss – one last embrace – tell you I love you… The roads are unfamiliar, and he is unsure where he is, where the hospital is, where anything is in relation to anywhere else really…_

_He is walking now, was driving but now suddenly is walking… Suddenly occurs to him that he could call the hospital – talk to Dwight – hear his voice, but he’s not quite sure how to make this happen, and his fingers can’t seem to properly hit the right buttons… But he forgets his frustration and the reason behind it soon anyway because now he is here – has arrived – somewhere – and is walking through corridors looking for something, someone…_

_There’s a door and a room, a curtain and a bed, and it occurs to him that he is in a hospital, that he has come here to visit someone… The figure lying on the gurney looks familiar yet not quite identifiable, but he gets only a glimpse before a doctor or a nurse is at his side, demanding his attention, obscuring his view, chatting incessantly about something unnecessary and uninteresting…_

_And it occurs to him suddenly, in a sudden wave of desperation after having been distracted for far too long by something he can no longer quite recall, just exactly who the figure in the bed had been, so still and so pale and now certainly too late, but he is nonetheless running through mazes of hallways and rooms thinking that perhaps he can do over the last few hours – get here earlier and tell that useless doctor to back the fuck off, run to Dwight’s side and tell him he loves him, hold his hand and touch his cheek, but he is also remembering that Dwight is already dead and that he has forgotten his room number and that it is already too late…_

He wakes with a gasp and a start, rolls over to see that Carmela has already gotten up and that the room is thankfully empty.  He checks the bedside clock.  7:38 AM.

It’s perhaps not the first dream he’s had about Agent Harris – dying.  But it is decidedly the most immediate and gut wrenching, his heart still pounding in his chest and the adrenaline rush making him feel shaky.  

They never discuss it.  He doesn’t even know what kind of cancer it is, now that he thinks about it (he’s already thought about it – just has never been able to bring himself to actually ask for one reason or another) – just knows that there are headaches, and bottles of Percocet and OxyContin, and Harris often not having much of an appetite when they’re eating dinner together.  Doesn’t really know if it’s progressing or getting worse, just that what had he said – a few months?  And it’s been, what, a month and a half?

A month and a half of seeing each other every few days – sex, dinner, evenings spent together chatting or snuggling or watching TV – seems like lately he’s been spending more time with him than he has at home.  Not that it matters, Carmela as involved as she is with her new spec house and AJ out all the time with his friends.  If Harris had been a woman he’d be thinking of him (her) as his official girlfriend by now, telling the guys about her (while of course exercising a certain latitude with regards to some of the details), buying her gifts, maybe even getting a little bored – the usual.

But Harris is not a woman and certainly not the usual.

And time is almost certainly running out on their relationship, just as much as it’s almost certainly running out on his own freedom – indictments any day now, any week, just a matter of time to see which one happens first.

He’s not normally a superstitious person, but still he picks up the phone.

The voice on the other end answers after a few rings – tired perhaps, but very much still alive, and Tony lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as Harris greets him.

“Hey – what’s up?”

He forces himself to relax, forces a false cheeriness into his voice that he hopes belies the tension he still feels.  “Nothin’.  Just, you know, calling to make sure everything’s okay.”

A slight pause.  “Is there some reason it wouldn’t be?”  And just that slight edge to Harris’s tone that tells him he hasn’t been fully successful.

But he doesn’t want to get into that – “No…” – seeks to reassure him like of course there’s nothing wrong, because what else is he gonna do – tell him that every day he walks around feeling like there’s an axe hanging over his head that’s about to drop?  That of course there’s an endless string of reason why things might not be okay at any given time of day or night?  That sometimes he can barely hold back the desperation he feels every time they meet – that this time could be the last – last kiss, last fuck – and just when he’s finally found someone who could be so perfect for him too (except that he’s a man) – undemanding, easy to please, easy to talk to, and possessed of a sort of soft sweetness – the way he smiles up at him from beneath those long lashes, the way he allows Tony to cuddle him close, the steady, calming quiet that seems to radiate off him…

He changes the topic.  “What’re you doing?”

“Driving to work.  What are you doing?”

This is better.  Harris’s tone is easier now, almost like he’s humoring him, always so easily willing to go wherever Tony leads – unresisting, but somehow without seeming weak or overly eager to please, clingy and desperate for attention like so many of the women he’s found himself with in the past.

He rolls to lie on his back, imagines Harris lying there beside him.  “Laying in bed.”  Trails fingers down his stomach and imagines it’s Harris’s hand caressing him as he snuggles in closer.  “Wishin’ you were here.”

“That might be awkward.”  And he can practically hear the smile in Harris’s voice, the subtle eye roll that means he has said something that Harris finds amusingly ridiculous or inappropriate.  And, Jesus, he’s gonna miss that.  He finds his hand moving as if to cup itself around the phantom head that he imagines resting against his chest, drops it down to the bed beside him instead.  Still can’t completely fight back that wave of anxiety.

“So everything’s okay?  You feeling okay?”  Hates that he sounds so… afraid – concerned, though – just mildly concerned.

“I’m fine – why?”  And Harris sounds just mildly curious, like there isn’t any reason why he wouldn’t be fine.

Tony fidgets with the coverlet.  “I don’t know.”  Decides if he’s gonna do this at all, maybe over the phone will be easier.  “I had a dream about you last night.  You were… you know…”

A pause – while Harris, what, figures out what he’s talking about?  Or maybe just decides what to say.  “I’m fine.  I promise.”

And it’s decisive and definitive enough that Tony decides to feel reassured.  Or at least assured that Harris doesn’t want to talk about it.

Which is maybe just as well, because does he really want to hear about it if he did?  Maybe better to just enjoy what they can while they can.

And speaking of…  “So you doing anything later?”

“I’ll um… I’ll give you a call.”

Tony smiles.  “Yeah.”  Because he can hear it in Harris’s voice that that’s pretty much a ‘yes’, as in ‘yes, I’m going to be doing you later’, and he’s looking forward to it already – no questions, no hassles, just good sex and a peaceful, companionable evening.

And he’s about to leave it at that, hang up the phone and end the conversation, but he can’t quite get that image out of his head – Harris lying cold and dead in a hospital room somewhere, and he never quite making it there in time.  

And Harris hasn’t hung up yet either.  “Hey.”

“Yeah?”  Harris sounds distracted, maybe by the traffic, and Tony almost reconsiders.  But then that image again…

“You know that I love you.”

There’s a pause, and Tony wonders what Harris is thinking, wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have said that, because he’s still not entirely sure why Harris is doing all this or what it all means to him.

But then – “I love you too.”  Adequately convincingly sincere and certain.

And Tony decides not to ask any more questions.


	21. Chapter 21

_“You know that I love you.”_

The words continue to echo through his mind in an ever widening loop even as the phone remains clutched forgotten in his hand and his eyes and body continue to navigate the morning rush hour traffic.

It’s not something he has ever expected to hear – not really – not the sort of thing he had ever envisioned Tony Soprano saying to him, even in their current altered circumstances together, sex and cuddling notwithstanding.

And not that Tony doesn’t say that sort of thing, because he does – he’s heard it on surveillance wiretaps after all – just that...

_“He loved Pussy Bonpensiero_ _– what happened to him?”_

Just that it doesn’t _mean_ anything – not to Tony, Tony who’d almost certainly killed one of his supposed closest friends, Tony who cheats on his wife constantly with an ever shifting array of apparently interchangeable young women, and so he’d rather not have to hear it, rather not be expected to say it back.

_“I love you too.”_

Because whatever he might or might not want to pretend that the sex means to him, and he’s not always sure what that is – most of the time doesn’t really want to think too closely about it – he can’t imagine that it means much of anything to Tony, in the larger sense.

And better even not to think too closely about Tony at all – since that never leads anywhere pleasant, anywhere other than a moral quagmire of self-recrimination.  Better just to focus on the way it makes him feel – the excitement and distraction of their secretive and illicit liaison, the thrill of feeling desired, the pleasures of sex and the comfort of someone holding him close – not really important what Tony feels, what this means to Tony (That he’s managed to suborn one of the FBI agents who’ve been pursuing him?  That he gets to fuck one of them even?  That it’s some sick thrill for him?).  

Even if he had sounded so genuinely concerned on the phone, even if he had, what, dreamt of him dying, been upset by it…

_“So everything’s okay?  You feeling okay?”_

They’ve just gotten used to each other, spending so much time together – it doesn’t have to mean anything more than that – just that Tony might miss something that’s become familiar to him, that it might occupy his thoughts a little.

Better to just take it for what it is, enjoy it for what it is, for as long as it even matters anyway.

_“I love you too.”_

It’s just what Tony had wanted to hear, the way so much of his half of their conversations is intended to be what Tony wants to hear – to keep him calm and cooperative and coming back, continuing this charade that makes him feel still alive – doesn’t need to mean anything more than that.

And it’s not like it hasn’t been on the tip of his tongue countless times before when they’ve been cuddling and kissing in the warmth of post-coital haze anyway – just a natural thing that people say in a situation like that, something that slips out, nothing more.  

But Tony had never said it, and so he had never said it.

And the fact that they’ve said it now – it can be just another part of the charade – nothing that needs to be dwelt on unduly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote about Pussy Bonpensiero is from S4E5.


	22. Chapter 22

The door clicks carefully shut, and they are alone.

As they have been any number of times before, in any number of hotel rooms before, but it seems now somehow different – awkward. _You know that I love you._

“Hey.”

Not his usual greeting – usually just kisses and a hand leading Harris towards the bed. But maybe that’s not how it should be – when you’re with someone you say ‘I love you’ to.

“Hey.”

Harris’s voice is soft, his expression open – expectant, yet uncertain.

Tony reaches up a hand to caress his cheek, skin soft like he’s just shaved, and Harris leans delicately into his touch, eyelids fluttering shut, reaches up his own hand to cover Tony’s. And Tony leans in for a kiss.

The moment of his lips meeting Harris’s is as addictive and erotic as ever, and Tony can’t resist deepening the kiss, pulling Harris’s body in close against his, pliant and yielding as always, Harris’s arms coming up to encircle him as Harris allows himself to be drawn in close, mouth opening under his as Tony slides his tongue inside, licking hungrily over Harris’s.

Eventually he pulls reluctantly away – just enough to give them enough room to maneuver themselves to the bed, seats Harris gently on the edge beside him, hand light at Harris’s wrist.

There is already a soft flush to Harris’s cheeks, his eyes dark and half-lidded, and it’s all Tony can do to keep from ravishing him completely. But he wants to know – he does…

“So, how are you feeling lately? You know – with the, ah…?” He trails off with a vague wave of his hand, unable to actually bring himself to say it.

Harris blinks away a look of mild confusion, looks briefly to the side before answering. “Okay… Lot of headaches… fatigue – stuff like that.”

“So anything further on the… prognosis, whatever?” And now it’s Tony who can’t bring himself to hold Harris’s gaze, looks instead down at where his hand rests over Harris’s, fingertips stroking softly along the finely sculpted lines of Harris’s hand as it rests on his thigh.

“Not really – the same.” Harris’s voice sounds tired, his expression somber and resigned when Tony looks up to meet his eyes.

He lets go of Harris’s hand, reaches up instead to trail the backs of his fingers over Harris’s cheek. Harris’s eyes slip closed momentarily, but he remains otherwise still under Tony’s touch.

Tony drops his hand back to his lap, watches as Harris’s gaze follows it down.

“You know, you never… told me what it is.”

Harris looks up at that, lips parting as if to speak, though it is another moment before the words are actually spoken. “Oh. Brain tumor. Glioblastoma.” He gestures vaguely towards the back of his skull.

Tony is silent a moment processing this, wonders fleetingly if the correct question would have been ‘would you still be doing this if you didn’t have a fucking _brain tumor_ fucking with your mind’, but hurriedly dismisses it. Harris seems fine – mentally – same man he’s known for almost ten years as far as Tony can tell. And either way, what difference does it make at this point anyway? He enjoys Harris’s company. Harris clearly enjoys his company.

And speaking of…

“You know I meant what I said. That I love you.”

The corners of Harris’s lips curve ever so slightly up into a smile, and he scoots in a little closer, hand reaching for Tony’s, dark eyes meeting his. “I meant it too. It’s been… special… these past few weeks. Being with you.”

His voice is soft and sincere, and Tony can’t help but smile, even though he halfway feels like he’s lost Harris already – everything always slipping away through his fingers before he can grab hold of it. He reaches up to cup his hand around Harris’s face, draws him in close so they are nuzzled together cheek to cheek, kissing him softly. “You know I think about you all the time. I’ve never been with anyone like you.”

He can feel Harris’s smile against his cheek, hear the amusement in his voice so close at his ear. “I’m not sure that’s really saying much.”

He pulls away slightly, just enough so they can see each other eye to eye. “I don’t mean like that. I just mean… I don’t know… how you are.” He leans in again for a kiss. “Sweet… gentle…” And another, just soft against Harris’s lips. “I love you.”

Harris allows himself to be kissed, opening easily under Tony’s ministrations, soft sigh of contentment as he encourages Tony onward, and Tony giving no protest as he slides his hands up under Harris’s clothing, starts eagerly to undress him.

“Make love to me, Tony.” It’s murmured low and earnest, Harris breaking their kiss to look him dead in the eye, and something about it goes straight to Tony’s cock.

They’ve never called it that before – not that they’ve really ever called it anything – out loud anyway. But it’s an unexpected turn-on to hear Harris say it, and in that tone of voice, and that is what it feels like now, this time, everything seemingly slower, more meaningful, but no less urgent or impassioned – Tony savoring each kiss and caress shared with his lover(?) like it could be their last – the way Harris moans softly as Tony suckles at his throat, the way he arches into Tony’s hand working over his cock.

It’s the first time Harris has really looked at him during sex, Tony realizes, eyes open, meeting his, dark with something more than just lust – something softer and almost vulnerable. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking? He still hasn’t quite figured out this thing with Harris.

But his body feels as good as ever – tight and hot and welcoming once Tony has gotten them both naked and slick and ready, his cock slipping inside Harris’s opening with practiced ease, orgasm building with each thrust as he watches Harris writhe beneath him, their eyes for once rarely leaving each other’s as the pleasure builds between them.

And the orgasm is as amazing as ever, leaving Tony panting and breathless, giddy and light-headed – not much different than Harris lying wrecked beside him if looks are anything to go by, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, lips curved into a sweetly careless smile and eyes heavy lidded.

Tony nuzzles them close, happy to allow the warm haziness of sex to chase away all the anxiety and uncertainty of last night’s dreams and his life in general, happy to enjoy the closeness while it lasts.


	23. Chapter 23

“You sure you don’t want any more?”

Harris flicks his gaze down to his plate, back up to Tony’s face, tries to decide if he’s actually eaten appreciably less of his dinner than usual or if it’s just Tony being more attentive than usual. Now that Tony is apparently in love with him and showing a renewed concern for his health.

But he shouldn’t be sarcastic, because really it is nice – very sweet of him. And it could be true. And even if it isn’t, what harm is there in pretending it is – really what he’s been doing all along anyway.

“I’m not really very hungry. Nausea – it’s one of the…” He trails off, feeling the rest of the explanation probably goes without saying.

Tony nods slowly, that calculating expression on his face. “The parasite thing.”

Harris offers a small shrug of apologetic acquiescence. “To be fair, that’s what I thought it was – the first time I mentioned it.”

Tony still looks thoughtful, like he’s piecing things together – counting up the time in his head. “It’s been going on that long then?”

“It was in remission for a while… after the first round of treatment. Year and a half.”

Tony nods again, and they sit in awkward silence for a moment, Harris not really looking at Tony, but not really looking anywhere else either.

“Don’t you think you oughta try and eat a little more though – keep up your strength.” He returns his attention quickly to Tony – that brittle edge of false cheerfulness in his voice, in his eyes – hopefulness even? Like eating a nutritious diet and getting enough sleep might actually make some material difference.

But it is at least a nice sentiment. And he can’t deny it’s been playing through his mind all day since that phone call this morning, his thoughts never seemingly able to stray too far or for too long – _you know that I love you_ – like something he’s been waiting to hear this whole time if only he’d have allowed himself to admit it, like he’s been craving it just as much or even more so than the sex and has just now allowed himself to realize it.

And that more and more the _‘I love you too’_ that had followed is really beginning to feel like less of a subterfuge or self-deception and more like a simple truth – the concern in Tony’s eyes, Tony’s fingers brushing gently across his cheek, the sweet little nothings Tony had whispered in his ear as they’d… made love – all coalescing to make it so hard to deny this is something he wants. And maybe apparently something Tony wants too?

But love doesn’t cure cancer any more than a hearty meal will, and maybe he owes it to Tony to remind him of this fact.

“Tony… either way – it’s gonna happen no matter what. At this point.”

And that makes Tony look so sad – defeated – that it’s hard to meet his eyes, even as Tony is still speaking to him – that same cajoling tone of voice, like a longer life expectancy is something he can wheedle out of him like confidential intel on rival mobsters. “I know, I’m just sayin’ – maybe it could… I duuno – I just don’t wanna lose you. I just wanna have more time with you. Is that so bad?”

And he can’t help but smile – at the convincingly earnest note to Tony’s voice, the soft almost pleading look in his eyes, the way Tony’s sidled up beside him so that they’re so close now, one hand resting gently along his back and the other reaching over to take hold of one of his own.

“No. It’s nice.”

“Just nice?” A thumb brushing whisper light along the nape of his neck makes him shiver, makes him shake his head and smile at Tony’s blatant attempt at fishing for compliments. But Tony is already kissing along his throat and jawline before he can even answer, soft murmur ghosting over his ear as Tony pulls him in close.

“I never get to see you enough. You know I miss you whenever we’re not together.”

“Really?” And now he’s the one playing coy, even as a smile pulls at his lips as Tony suckles at an earlobe, tongue tickling over the outer shell.

“Yeah, really.” More kisses as he nuzzles in close, enjoying the feel of Tony’s hands smoothing over his skin, warming everything in their wake, flush of almost arousal that would have him eager for more were it not so soon after their earlier activities.

And then, “You busy this weekend?” It’s said on a whim, but not exactly, because the thought’s been circulating through his head for a while now – a secret little fantasy like the ones he’d entertained during the ambiguity of that period of time between their first kiss and first fuck.

“This weekend?” Tony pulls slightly away to look questioningly at him.

“My wife’s going out of town – her parents are having this anniversary thing – taking the kids. I told her I didn’t really feel up to it.” Circulating through his head ever since late last week when he’d realized (maneuvered it?) that he would have an entire weekend to himself – no kids, and no prying, resentful, bitter wife.

“Yeah?” Tony’s look is appraising, calculating. “You… think you might feel up to going somewhere with me instead?” And his fingertips are just now trailing up the inside of Harris’s thigh – possibly to see what else might be feeling ‘up’.

And Harris allows himself to melt into Tony’s touch. “Maybe…”

Tony smiles, self-satisfied, kisses him again. “Well, you leave it up to me then. I’ll arrange all the details.”

Just like he’s now allowing Tony to arrange their bodies, Tony atop him as his thighs come up to encircle Tony’s waist, Tony’s weight and warmth making him feel anchored and secure as Tony’s hands and mouth find all those little places he loves to be touched and kissed.


	24. Chapter 24

“You know, I saw you – the other night.”  

They are driving – in a clandestinely inconspicuous rental car towards the carefully arranged location upon which Tony has decided for their secretive little weekend getaway together – and Harris is just now shooting him a mildly inquisitive and confused look from the passenger seat.  

“Last Friday.  Fascino.  You were eating dinner.  Had a… brunette woman with you… good looking.”

He sneaks another glance in Harris’s direction, Harris for his part looking somewhat more enlightened, but fairly unreadable beyond that.

“My wife.”  His tone is cool and remote, all Federal Agent, and Tony tries to interpret that – maybe discussion of the wife is off limits?

“Yeah.”  His response is noncommittal as he internally debates whether this is something he wishes to pursue, and in which direction, because despite the fact that Harris has become much more open and relaxed around him over their recent weeks together, even going so far as to relate an anecdote from his childhood or college years here and there, he is still decidedly taciturn regarding anything pertaining to his current personal situation – wife, kids… prognosis and life expectancy - not that Tony necessarily wants to know about all that.

“You should’ve come over.  I would’ve introduced you.”

And so he is surprised when it is Harris who continues the conversation, and in this vein and in such an off-hand manner (sarcastic though? – because what the fuck) – like he is talking to a co-worker with whom he is friendly and not a presumed criminal with whom he is having an affair.  But maybe it’s just a bluff, since the opportunity is, arguably, now long past.

He takes another quick look, but Harris’s face is angled too far to the side for him to get a good read on his expression.  He turns back to the road.

“I was in a hurry – didn’t really have time.”  It’s a lie, and maybe Harris knows it, because this time he remains silent, and when he peeks over for another look he catches Harris just turning quickly away from an assessing glance of his own, his gaze now fixing decidedly forward.

Tony lets out a put-upon huff of air, tries to figure out why it is he even brought all this up in the first place – maybe should have at least saved it for the drive home.  

“Look, you wanna know the truth.  I was there with someone.  A woman.  I… didn’t know how you’d react, so… we left – went somewhere else.”

Harris is looking at him – that much he can tell from the intermittent little glances out of the corner of his eye, but so far his expression remains (carefully?) neutral, and Tony can’t tell if he’s upset and hiding it, or just genuinely indifferent.  If Harris had been a woman, this would’ve been the time when the tears or angry tirades or suicide threats would’ve started.  But instead, nothing.

Tony looks over.  Harris looks him back, straight in the eye.

He returns his attention to the admittedly scarce and undemanding traffic on the rural highway.

“What, that doesn’t bother you?”  And if his tone is laced with disbelief, it’s only because that’s never really happened before – one of his lovers actually not caring – and if there’s even an undercurrent of hostility it’s only because deep down he knows – how jealousy or lack thereof can be a weapon – and this lack of response could be a deliberately executed strategy.

He looks over at him again, long enough that Harris eventually looks back and then quickly away, staring out at the road ahead.

Eventually though, “Well, we’re not exactly in an exclusive relationship.  We are both married.”  

Tony considers his statement, the neutral tone of voice – almost tired sounding, resigned – sneaks another look over.  

“I know, but this is different.”  

Different in that he can’t exactly just up and leave Carmela all that easily – needs to at least keep up the appearance, but he could easily refrain from seeing other women… other people, and Harris must realize this distinction.  And either doesn’t want to admit to being jealous, which, okay, he supposes is perhaps understandable, given the situation, but still irritating, or actually isn’t jealous, which is slightly infuriating, given that…  

He glances quickly over again.  “You’re not, you know, jealous, whatever…?”

Harris flashes him a look of momentary... annoyance, derision?  Tony’s not sure, but at least it’s something other than bland indifference.  

“Well, I suppose I’d prefer that you not make a point of mentioning all the other people you’re with.”  And, is it Tony’s imagination, or is there definitely an icy undercurrent to his tone?

And Tony again wonders to himself why he had felt it necessary to bring this all up.  Because of course she had probably just been his wife, and of course he has a right to go out to dinner with her from time to time - keep up the appearance – even if he and Tony are now...

But he should probably really be thinking about damage control now, because more and more, Harris is seeming distinctly put out, and that is not at all how a successful romantic interlude away should start out.

“Look, what ‘all the other people’?  This is one time we’re talking about here.  And, for the record, we didn’t even do anything.”  And he pitches his voice at its most reasonable, most conciliatory.

Harris still looks somewhat incredulous, but also now perhaps a hint amused?  “Do you  _ want _ me to be jealous?”

Tony takes a moment with that.  Because,  _ yes. _  But is that the sort of thing you just come right out and say, especially when you’ve basically just been asked ‘did you just tell me that for the sole purpose of trying to make me jealous’, which in retrospect maybe he had, and which in retrospect sounds perhaps a bit childish and melodramatic. 

“I dunno.”  And then after a few more moments, because, yes, this is the reason he’d brought it up in the first place, if he’s being completely honest, and, no, it’s not the sort of thing he’d usually admit to, but, then again, no, Harris isn’t his usual… partner, or whatever, so, “I was, kinda.”

And it seems to surprise Harris too, who looks at him speechless for a moment before recovering.  “Well, since you ask, I guess I’d prefer that you not see other people.”

Tony gives him a nod, more in acknowledgment than agreement, but maybe agreement.  “Okay then.”

Sneaks another glance in Harris’s direction to try and decide whether the matter is really settled – what sort of mood this has all left Harris in.  He’s looking away – to the side, arm propped along the window.  Probably not good, or at least not as good as Tony would like, given that he is hoping to get laid within a reasonably short period of time following their arrival.

“I didn’t have sex with her.”  It’s even true, though the main reason for saying it, of course, is to let Harris know that there’s no reason for him to sit there and sulk, especially now that Tony knows that it does in fact matter to him (and doesn’t that give him a certain sense of satisfaction).

Harris looks over at him – puzzled maybe, but still guarded.  And Tony figures maybe he should clarify...

“That other person I was with.  I thought about it… you know – get back at you.  Somehow I just… I don’t know… didn’t really want to.”  Looks over to see how Harris is taking this, finds that he’s looking sort of down and to the side, expression not easily visible, continues on.  “You know lately you’re… you’re the only one I really wanna be with.”

Harris finally looks up, gives him a small smile – one of those wry looking ones that seem like they’re slipping out maybe against his better judgement.  But his eyes are soft and warm, and so Tony relaxes a little.

But it’s still sticking in his craw, this idea of Harris and his wife together.  Because does she do things for him that Tony doesn’t do - like suck his cock or (obviously, he guesses) let him fuck her?  Does she make him writhe and sigh in ecstasy?  Does Harris think about him when he’s with her, or does she capture his full attention?  Or maybe she’s cold and indifferent and the sex bland and perfunctory and nearly (hopefully) non-existent, kind of like him and Carmela recently.  But either way, the not knowing is becoming a source of aggravation.

And so, even though he knows it’s probably not the best idea, he finds he just can’t help himself – can’t help asking.

“So, did you, you know… after…?”

Harris looks up, startled – like he’d been engrossed in thoughts of something else – and then puzzled.

“Did I what?”

Tony vacillates another moment, trying to decide exactly how to phrase it – like there’s some way to say it that won’t immediately be awkward.  “You know… have sex?”

“With my wife?”  Harris shoots him an incredulous look, shakes his head as if in disbelief, pauses long enough before answering that Tony starts to wonder if he will.  But then, finally, “No.”

“Why not?”  Not that Harris’s tone hadn’t been entirely peremptory, like he had had no intention of or desire to elaborate further, but Tony wants to know. 

Harris still looks like he can’t half believe Tony is actually asking about this, or maybe just that he’s even answering, but, nevertheless, rather resignedly...  “We aren’t exactly on the best terms right now.”  A pause, then, “I think she suspects…”  He trails off with a vague gesture in Tony’s direction, the implication left unsaid fairly obvious.

“Oh.  Sorry.”  He’s not really sorry – not that he might be responsible for ruining Harris’s marriage, and not that Harris apparently isn’t getting laid by anyone but him.  Though he does feel a little sorry about that – about not being sorry – because maybe he should.  But really he doesn’t.  Because it’s not his fault.  Harris is here of his own free will – doing presumably exactly what he wants to be doing (and at his own suggestion).  So why shouldn’t they both just enjoy it?  

But he still could have said it with a little more conviction, if only just to smooth things along.

Either way, Harris seems to have accepted his statement at face value… or decided that he doesn’t really care.  

“It’s okay.  I mean, things weren’t exactly good before anyway.”

“So you two don’t…?”

Harris gives him a look – that look that says ‘don’t even bother – it’s not gonna happen’ – not necessarily angry or annoyed, just ‘no’.  “I’d really rather not discuss it.”

That look that Tony knows means business and for him to back off, and that strangely enough (or maybe not) Tony has always headed, because even from the beginning Harris has always been one of those few people in his life that he feels truly warrant respect and caution.  And now, maybe even something more...

“Okay, okay.  It’s just… I would kinda prefer if you… you know… I mean, since I’m not either.”

Harris continues to stare at him a moment longer, expression remote and nonplussed, before shaking his head in apparent amusement, another wry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth making Tony feel unsure whether he should feel relieved or insulted, like Harris is enjoying some private little joke, possibly at his expense.  But then the look he throws Tony’s way is full of indulgent affection.

“I’m not.  Don’t worry.  You’re… the only one...”

And it’s what Tony had wanted to hear – maybe why he’d started the conversation in the first place.  And Harris’s eyes are full of warmth and promise, and Tony relaxes back into his seat, already envisioning Harris flushed and naked beneath him. 


	25. Chapter 25

He should really be behaving more responsibly, thinking of more than just his own selfish needs and desires.

“C’mere.”

Hannah had wanted to stay with him this weekend, but he’d told her to go with her mother – assured her he’d be fine alone.  Obviously hadn’t mentioned he was blowing her off in favor of his married Mafioso boyfriend who is also apparently still seeing other women (not that that should be a surprise).

And he’s still trying to decide how he feels about that.  Not hurt, surely, because surely it’s what he had expected all along, all of Tony’s affectionate reassurances to the contrary notwithstanding.  But whatever it is, maybe his indecisiveness is showing because...

“Look, I’m sorry for bringing up all that shit in the car.  I was just – jealous – that’s all.  I’m crazy about you.  I’ve never felt like this before.  I love you.”

The cabin is small and the walk through the living area to the bed not long, and it is hard to resist as Tony is kissing him just there, whispering just what he wants to hear soft and cajoling against his ear as warm, strong hands slide up underneath his clothes.  So easy to give in and let it happen.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the only reason you want me is because you can’t have me?”

The post-coital haze has cleared, and he is thinking again, though maybe Tony is sleeping, and maybe that’s why he has asked now as opposed to some other time.

“What, because you’re married?”  Tony is not sleeping, but his voice sounds sluggish, unfocused.

“Because I’m…”  But he can’t bring himself to say it, instead stares up at the roughhewn beams supporting the ceiling, wonders what exactly it feels like to have a panic attack.

“Look, you don’t know that for sure.”  Tony’s voice is firm now, decisive, and Harris turns his head slightly in his direction.  “Something could still…  Either way, it’s not…”

But it is, and they both know it, and it’s undoubtedly why they’re both holding each other so tightly now, why Harris and maybe even Tony have kept coming back.

“Everything okay?”

Tony’s voice is laced with what seems like genuine apprehension as Harris pads his way back from the bathroom, slips beneath the covers where Tony’s body is warm and inviting.

It could be flattering, but really it’s just another reminder.

“Fine.  Had to piss.  Sorry I woke you.”

Tony is still studying his face, and so Harris leans in for a kiss –  _ see, I’m fine _ .

And it’s another moment, but Tony finally gives in, and Harris’s world dissolves into heated kisses and caresses.

It’s nice to be held.  That’s what he’s thinking, as he falls asleep.  And tomorrow we’ll forget all about this – just be two ordinary people having an ill-advised yet for the time being enjoyable affair. 


	26. Chapter 26

Dwight is cooking him breakfast.  Because apparently he can, and because even though (theoretically) no one would recognize them here, or (hopefully) recognize the nature of their relationship, it’s still safer and easier than eating at that diner they’d passed a few miles back down the road.

_“Should we pick up some groceries while we’re here?”  Here being a quaint little country convenience store beside the gas station where they’ve stopped._

_“What for?  We can go out.  We’re far enough away.”  Hopefully theoretically… or at least that’d been the intention – a reason why he’d picked this place._

_“I… just thought it’d be easier.”_

_And hopefully the fact that Harris is making his selections with a certain air of practiced assurance means that he actually knows how to cook something._

Which apparently he does.

_“So you actually know what you’re doing?”  And he’s half impressed and half still dubious._

_But Harris is just giving him that sort of amused little smile that looks like he’s half fighting it back.  “Yeah, I… cooked for myself a lot.”_

_“What, when you were single?”_

_“When I was in Pakistan.”_

_Oh.  That’d never occurred to him.  Because honestly he’s never really given it that much thought... beyond the fact that he’d been a little halfway impressed that Harris is actually doing something useful for a change, something good (not that someone else might not think investigating OC would be good and useful, but) – something that could actually save innocent lives from getting blown up – babies and little children – his own family even._

_“So your wife didn’t go with you?”_

_“No.”_

_“That must’ve been hard.”  Or maybe not, since Harris is seemingly having no difficulty whipping them up a nice little dinner right now, but what the fuck else is he supposed to say?_

_“Apparently.”  And while that sounds like it means something, it also sounds like the end of that conversation, which is probably just as well really, because it hadn’t seemed to be doing much for Harris’s general outlook on life, and Tony can think of something much more pleasant for them to do with their time._

And it’s kind of… nice – homey – like they’re a real couple or something.  Kind of a turn on to be honest.

“You know I don’t plan on letting you outta bed all weekend.”

“I’m already out of bed.”

“You know what I mean.”  Dwight knows what he means, because he’s smiling warm and inviting as Tony kisses along his throat and jawline, lets his hands wander beneath the waistband of Dwight’s pajama pants (plaid, flannel, for the record, and a U.Penn sweatshirt that looks like he’s had it since college – far cry from the conservative business suits Tony’s used to seeing him in – or out of).

And after breakfast Tony shows him exactly what he means, delicate skin at the insides of Dwight’s wrists silky soft beneath his fingertips providing just that last bit of impetus needed –  

_“What are you gonna do – tie me the bedpost?”_

_And as soon as the words are out of his mouth they’re putting ideas in Tony’s head.  And maybe Dwight’s too because he’s quickly looking back down at the eggs he’s frying awkward and embarrassed, like maybe he hadn’t really meant to say that out loud._

He’s never really been into this sort of thing before – usually just likes to lay back, let sex happen – easy release of orgasm drowning out the frustrations and aggravations of the day and the thrill of having some lovely young thing so eager to please him.

But with Dwight it’s different, seeing him lying there, decadent and yielding, just waiting to be ravished, dark eyes intent on his – somehow he doesn’t mind putting in a little extra effort, enjoying even the thought of his partner’s pleasure.  And Tony’s never really been one for deep analytical thinking anyway – not when there’s this waiting for him...

_“So what’d you have planned for the day?  We could go for a hike.  Or I think there’s boating on the lake.”_

_“Actually I thought we could stay in bed all day and I could fuck your brains out.”_


	27. Chapter 27

“You alright?”  Because Tony has just now woken beside him with a start, breath heavy and erratic.

“Yeah, nightmare.”  And because Tony has apparently interpreted his silence as confusion (silence because does he really want to know?)... “What, you don’t have ‘em?  The shit you have to deal with?”  

And before he can decide whether he really wants to get into this with Tony – that constant nagging anxiety over when it’s going to happen – when he’s going to start getting really sick, how bad it’s going to be… “You know – the terrorism – all that shit.”

“Oh.”  Oh, the whole rest of his life that if it weren’t for the fact that he’s dying might be a source of stress and concern, but which in comparison...  “You get used to it after a while.  Honestly, most of it’s pretty tedious.”  And really that’s the truth anyway, either way...

“Tedious – we’re talking about people getting blown up here – little babies and… all that...”  And though his voice is still roughened with sleep, Harris knows that this is one of those things that can easily get Tony riled up, and not in a good way.

“Well, like I said, it’s mostly a lot of paperwork and following leads that don’t go anywhere.”

And is it comforting that Tony doesn’t always seem to remember just how sick he is, realize that surely all of this will soon cease to be of any importance to him whatsoever, or is it just an unwanted reminder of how uncaring and self-centered Tony can sometimes be.

But he shouldn’t be so cynical, really, because the weekend has been so otherwise lovely.

_ He has  _ never _ had sex like this.  And had it really been his suggestion  _ – _ something apparently lurking in the back of his mind unbeknownst even to him, or had it been all Tony  _ – _ latching onto an innocent, meaningless comment and twisting it into this.   _

_ He’s always been content, happy even, to let Tony take the lead during sex, but this is different, and the feel of his wrists tied securely above his head is more of an erotic turn-on than he ever would’ve imagined. _

_ And even more shocking, making him gasp, is the feel of Tony’s mouth on his cock, an eventuality that’s never even crossed his mind as something to consider.  It’s only just light  _ – _ only a few moments of wet suction just at the tip and Tony’s tongue slicking up the length of his shaft  _ – _ but it’s still all he can do not to writhe helplessly as two fingers press insistently inside him and Tony eyes him in smug satisfaction. _

Tony is eyeing him now, but it’s more calculating than anything – that look he gets as he’s taking in some bit of new and possibly useful information, and it’s enough to make Harris resent this intrusion of real life into their idyllic little weekend escape.

He closes his eyes, hopes Tony will take it as a sign that he’s falling back asleep.  Opens them as fingertips brush softly over his cheek, Tony leaning  in for a chaste yet lingering good-night kiss.

“Sorry I woke you up.”

Smiles as the kiss deepens, Tony’s tongue nudging just between his lips, just enough to make him reconsider sleep, at least for the moment.

_ The morning sunlight is soft filtering through tree leaves and gauzy curtains, and Tony’s arm draped loosely over his chest is warm and solid.  He nestles in closer and feels the reciprocating tug of Tony’s arm tightening around him, smiles as he closes his eyes and just listens to the sounds of the forest surrounding them.   _

_ It’s the first time he and Tony have spent more than an hour or two napping in each other’s arms.   _

_ It’s nice waking up like this. _


	28. Chapter 28

Properly considered, this is madness.  Even if Carmela is safely out all day at her new renovation project and AJ is at work.  And even if as long as Harris is at least dressed if and when someone walks in his presence can very probably be explained away (not like anyone’d suspect – not like Harris is some twenty year old stripper with fake tits and absolutely no plausible excuse for being here).

Because this is not something he does (and does Harris know that – years of surveillance revealing that he does not bring girls back to the house – ever).  Because there’s a certain separation – even aside from his agreement with Carmela – there’s his life here, and then his life out there.

And it’s not exactly that he’s trying to redefine or blur that distinction – it’s just that... 

_ It’s their second morning eating breakfast together, and he’s starting to wonder what this would be like  _ – _ for real  _ – _ kind of like how he’d occasionally wondered (usually at someone else’s prompting) what his life would’ve been like if he’d decided to sell patio furniture instead of taking the easy road into his father’s line of work. _

_ They could leave New Jersey together (better that than stick around for an indictment), run off somewhere together (but where, and would Dwight ever even agree to something like that, what with his kids and all), have a whole nother life  _ – _ a nice life  _ – _ somewhere else.  Until… _

_ He’s not at first certain what it is that’s woken him up, but Dwight’s absence from his spot beside him in bed and the light on under the bathroom door send a little spark of trepidation up his spine because... _

_ There’s a toiletry bag that Dwight hasn’t really unpacked, has left discretely a little off to the side, but he’s looked inside, and there’re a lot of bottles of pills in there, and he can’t not notice... _

But other than the fact that it’d been increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that his weekend companion had been not quite well, it’d been all so perfect...

_ Dwight has a nice smile.  He’s noticed this before, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dwight look quite this happy, this relaxed, and it’s so nice  _ – _ cuddling in bed with no worries about having to get back home or back to work, sharing a quiet drink out on the little porch overlooking the lake at dusk (and have they ever actually been outside together like this before?), even sitting in bed reading an old magazine while Dwight drowses quietly at his side. _

_ So hard to leave it all behind and return to the real world outside  _ – _ that urge to just stay forever. _

_ “You know we could always go back inside…”  As he’s pulling Dwight close against him (not a problem since he’s checked and there’s no one around to see), kissing him hard on the throat and the mouth. _

_ “We just did that a few hours ago.”  And he lets Dwight believe that it’s just sex he wants, let’s him give him that slightly censorious look as he reluctantly pulls away, walks towards the car, because otherwise he’d have to explain.  Explain that leaving here is kind of like saying good-bye. _

And maybe that’s the thing – trying to find a way not to let go, not to lose Dwight completely, to form some connection that will last even when...  

And so he’s asked him here.  And now he’s leading a (still somewhat wary) Agent Harris up the stairs to his bedroom.  And he’ll always remember this – always picture him here – Dwight walking across his bedroom floor, clothes draped carefully over his chair so they won’t crease since he needs to get back to work after this, Dwight lying in his bed, under his coverlet, Dwight showering in his bathroom afterwards, pulling his bathrobe tight around himself.

Tony holds him close, Dwight’s skin still warm and damp against his cheek, but he knows their time here is not unlimited, that every second they stay like this invites disaster.

And so he’s helping Dwight dress, straightening his tie, kiss good-bye before opening the front door just in case, and then Dwight is walking away towards his car.

_ “So did you have a nice weekend?” _

_ That smile again  _ – _ soft and warm and happy. _

_ “I had a nice weekend.” _

_ And he’ll pretend it isn’t tinged with even the slightest edge of sadness or regret. _


	29. Chapter 29

The hotel room seems oddly impersonal, more than usually impersonal, like a step backwards in their relationship – 

_ it feels so strange to be naked in Tony’s house, to be in Tony’s house at all for any reason other than official business, and the bedroom looks so different when seen from this angle, lying on his back beside Tony in Tony’s bed _

– but really what else are they supposed to do.  And it’s nice being able to drowse peacefully in Tony’s arms without having to worry about someone walking in on them, except –

“Look, you know I hate to ask… but is there any way you could find out exactly when these indictments might be coming down?”

And it’s not something they’ve discussed, not in quite a while anyway, and never when they’re like this, but it’s also not something that requires any additional explanation – like he wouldn’t know exactly what Tony’s asking him.

“Tony…”

“Cause, I mean, you helped me out before…”  And he does at least have the grace to look a little uncomfortable, embarrassed even, like he knows that asking violates some unwritten set of rules for their relationship that up until now they’ve both adhered to scrupulously.

“That was a different situation.  Your life was in danger.”  Which is what he tells himself every time this question crosses his mind, which is not all that often since he makes a point of not really thinking about it, and he is so tired, and so soon it will really not matter anyway, and...

“Yeah, alright, I know.”

And he’s not exactly sure if that’s actually an end to the conversation or just Tony’s way of saying ‘yeah, but I still more or less was expecting or at least hoping you’d tell me anyway’.

Which is not even something he could necessarily easily do, because he really doesn’t know, and asking anyone who would know could be incredibly awkward if not actually incriminating given the circumstances.

_ That look Sandra gives him as she’s walking half dressed out of the bathroom and he’s trying to nonchalantly hang up the phone – but he knows she knows.  _

_ “Damn! We're gonna win this thing!” _

_ And Goddard looking at him so strangely – a look that doesn’t quite go away even when Tony’s gun trafficking tip actually pans out. _

Tony’s look is still a little expectant, or at least assessing, like he’s trying to gauge just how far he can push things, how far he can impose on their relationship maybe.  Except that probably it wouldn’t be an imposition – not at this point.  Because at this point he’d almost certainly tell him, if he knew.  Even if it means that Tony would leave, run for it, because eventually he’s going to lose him either way anyway.

And he wonders if Tony is thinking what he’s thinking, sitting there beside him in their hotel room bed with the lights down dim, and he almost doesn’t want to ask – doesn’t want to suggest it if it hasn’t occurred to him already.  But he loves Tony, at least a little, at least enough that he doesn’t want to see him hauled off to jail, and so...

“Why don’t you just leave now?”  

“Leave?”  Like it’s never occurred to him, even though it  _ must _ be always present in the back of his mind...

“Lam it.  I mean, that’s why you want to know, right?”

Tony gives him an equivocating shrug – like either he isn’t sure himself, or maybe just doesn’t want to commit to admitting anything out loud quite yet.

“Well, if you’re not gonna run, then what’s the point of knowing?”

“I dunno.  Is that what you want?”  And of course it isn’t what he wants, and he’s sorry even that Tony seems a little hurt and offended by the suggestion, but he also knows that often in life you don’t get what you want, and you don’t get to choose.

“What  _ I _ want?”  Like being assigned to organized crime in New Jersey, and then worse, to counter-terrorism, like being sent overseas for nine months and then coming home sick with cancer and to a marriage left barely holding together, a wife whom he’d come to find out had been involved in a months long affair while he’d been alone in a foreign country.

“Yeah – for me to leave town – never see me again.”  And is it wrong that in the face of all that, it does matter – losing Tony, not having this comfort even for what little time he has left.

Because already he can feel it – the constant headaches, difficulty concentrating, difficulty remembering little things – knows it’s starting to happen.

“Well, it’s gonna be a moot point sooner or later.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that.”  And, see, this is what he’ll miss – Tony being so sweet like this, so tender and caring – moving in close to take him in his arms, soft kisses, warm embraces, comforting voice murmuring sweet little nothings against his ear…  “Sweetheart… angel…”  sometimes nicer even that the impassioned frenzy of sex – just to feel loved and cared for.

But as much as he enjoys it – Tony’s hand smoothing warmly up and down his back, steady heartbeat beneath his ear where his head rests against Tony’s chest – he still knows it’s not real – not entirely.

“You’re not… staying just for me though.”  And even as he’s saying it he still knows what it is he wants to hear – that he does matter, that this thing of theirs is a factor in Tony’s plans, that...

“Hey, I have feelings for you.”  Even if it’s still a little difficult to fully believe.

“I have feelings for you too.”

They are both quiet a moment, but he can feel the tension in Tony’s body now – that he’s thinking, calculating, weighing the options...

“Running… I dunno.  I can’t necessarily just up and leave.”

“Why not?  You’re telling me you don’t have enough cash to just go to Mexico or wherever and hide out for the rest of your life?”

“I dunno.  I mean, what would I do down there?”

“Not go to prison.”

They are silent another moment, and he tries to feel the irony and strangeness that should accompany a federal agent attempting to convince a career criminal to take the money and run while he can, but really all he can bring himself to feel is hopeful that Tony won’t take his advice.  And maybe it will be because of his kids or his pride or his code, but maybe he will still be able to tell himself that it’s also a little bit for him.

“I could beat it.  I mean, I might.”  Or because Tony is just being unrealistically optimistic – either way.

“Then why’re you asking.”

There’s a pause, and he can feel Tony letting out a long breath.

“Supposing I did want to leave…”

“If you have reason to believe it’s going to be soon, then just leave now.  What’s delaying a month or two gonna get you?”  Other than the opportunity to watch the person you’ve been fucking for the past few months slowly die...

“What I was going to say… was, would you possibly consider coming with me?”  

And he’s stunned silent.  Because honestly the possibility has never even occurred to him – not beyond the vague, amorphous desire to somehow have a relationship that circumvents all the restrictions and obligations of their real lives – uninterrupted nights together, waking up in the morning snuggled in each other’s arms, the ability to have a conversation in public without worrying how it will be perceived by everyone watching... 

But this… “Look, Hesh was telling me about this place – this clinic – they specialize in this sort of thing, and maybe they could, you know…”

This is nothing but a false hope, a chimera.

“Tony, those places are scams.”

But Tony is undeterred.  “Look, either way – it couldn’t hurt.   And… we could be together for, you know…”

“Tony, I don’t know.  I have kids.”

“Hey, I do too.  But we could lie on the beach, sip margaritas, watch the sunset.  I’d take good care of you…  …I promise...  …I love you.  I never been with anyone like you before.  And I don’t wanna lose you.  I don’t wanna leave you.”

And it sounds so nice, so picturesque, except that that’s not at all what dying of terminal cancer is going to look like – not according to anything he’s read.  And if that’s what Tony’s expecting… he’s going to be sorely disappointed, and that’s never good.  It’s not going to be sweet and romantic.  It’s going to be realistic.

He’s going to be realistic.  “I’ll… see if I can get something definitive for you… a date.”

And if Tony is disappointed, better now than later after they’re already trapped somewhere together and Tony feels that he’s cheated him – fooled him.  

But really he mostly just looks a little sad.

“Dwight, I mean it – I want you to come with me.  Just… think about it.”

“...Okay…”  He’ll think about it, as in he’ll imagine fading peacefully and painlessly into oblivion in the arms of his lover, warm sea breezes playing softly over their skin together as the sun sets magenta and violet over an endless crystal sea, allowing himself to be comforted by sweetly alluring fantasy blocking out all the harsh realities that’ve plagued his thoughts ever since that final fatal diagnosis as Tony’s arms tighten protectively around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line, "Damn, we're gonna win this thing" is taken from S6E21 - Made in America.
> 
> You can see this scene in the YouTube video entitled 'The Sopranos - Agent Harris Helps Tony Soprano'


	30. Chapter 30

– resignation –

He hasn’t told Tony that he’s resigned.  That more and more instead of blowing off work and family to spend time with Tony he’s blowing off Tony to spend time lying in bed feeling like shit.

And it isn’t that he doesn’t want to see him – he does – but not like this – not when it’s difficult to stay awake and focused, not when he has absolutely zero sex drive, not when it’s sometimes difficult to follow a conversation or the plot of a TV show for any length of time.

And he had meant to tell him – really he had – when he had initially cut his hours back, and then again when he had finally decided he couldn’t handle even a part time work load.  But then the thought of Tony’s reaction had always stayed his hand – that look of pity and loss like he’s already dead.  Or worse yet – coldness, contempt – easily seen through fabrications about being busy and calling him later when what they both know he means is ‘I don’t want you anymore – not like this, but I don’t want to have to admit it out loud’.

And so he lies in bed now, puts all that out of his mind and imagines Tony there beside him – holding his hand, stroking his cheek – remembers the way it had felt to be held and kissed, loved and desired.  It may not be as good as the real thing (isn’t as good as the real thing), but it’s what he’s got, and it’s what he had always expected.  And at least he has his memories (for now), and that’s something at least.

– realization –

It’s that Agent Goddard – Dwight’s partner, and he’s here eating alone… which is unusual.  And Dwight’s been awfully inaccessible lately – busy with work or some shit.  Or at least that’s what he’s been saying, and that’s what Tony’s been preferring to believe, because the alternatives are not...

“So, ah, where’s your partner today?”

“He, um, he resigned.”  He doesn’t know Goddard that well, but he doesn’t need to to see that he’s clearly uneasy – that this is not an easy conversation for him.

“Resigned?  Everything okay?  I mean...”

“Sure.  Yeah.  He just wanted to pursue other career opportunities elsewhere.”  That he’s clearly lying.  But also maybe that he’s clearly communicating the message he had intended to deliver… for whatever reason.

“Really.  Where?”  Because of course he already knows where, and probably Goddard must know too, and does maybe Goddard know that he knows?  And did Goddard just come here to gauge his reaction – like he suspects something?

But Goddard seems disinclined toward further conversation, seems to be intentionally concentrating all his attention on his sandwich and chips.  

Which forces Tony to contemplate the questions he can’t ask – which is what is really up with Dwight, and is this really it?  And beneath the feelings of anger and betrayal engendered by this new bit of information – that Dwight would lie to him, avoid him even – is that inescapable feeling of despair and loss – like part of him had hoped and believed it wouldn’t happen, and now here it is – inescapable.

And under different circumstances he might not have called – not right away – might have allowed resentment and hurt feelings to fester for a while, but there isn’t time for that now.  And so he’s heading out to his car, cell already in hand.  He’s listening to the phone ring, and hoping Dwight will pick up.

– reunion –

It’s not the phone call that’s surprising.  Tony calls all the time.

_ “Hey, how you doin’?” _

But maybe the fact that Tony had called him at home – because though it’s really not that much of a surprise that Tony would know his home number, because of course he would, somehow they have always had an obvious, unspoken no calls to the house sort of arrangement.

_ “You weren’t at work, and you weren’t answering your cell, so I thought I’d try you here – make sure everything’s okay.” _

_ “Yeah, I…” was just working from home today, was in the bathroom, didn’t hear the phone ring… but for some reason just can’t bring himself to say it, not again, not this time.   _

_ “I’m not feeling very well today.” _

Surprising that he would admit it, but even more surprising that Tony would offer...

_ “Are you there by yourself?  I’ll come over.” _

And that he would agree.

_ “...okay.” _

But maybe it’s just the fact that he’s been to Tony’s house (for sex, in Tony’s bed, with his wife’s things all around, while his wife has been out… more than once) that makes him feel like he can’t say no, that it’d be inappropriate or that someone might see.

Or maybe it’s that he misses him, really misses him, and while Tony might still leave, might make up some excuse – somewhere he has to be, something he has to go do, he might still stay…

He can’t help but smile when he sees Tony standing just outside his front door, carrying a box of something, pastries maybe.  Even though he’s so tired and he feels like shit – this is still worth getting out of bed for.

Tony spares only a glance for the interior of the house before focusing in on him, and that’s nice.  Except that his expression of concerned dismay only highlights the extent of his deterioration, and that’s not something he likes to think too much about.

Still it’s nice when Tony reaches out and gently touches his cheek, and then takes him in his arms, and it’s so hard not to just give in, rest his full weight against Tony’s body, and so he does.

“Hey, come on, let’s go sit down.”

And he lets Tony lead him towards the sofa in the den, lets Tony pull him down to sit beside him and then gather him in close, practically sitting in his lap, warm hand moving steadily up and down his back in a comforting caress, lips soft against his ear.

“Sweetheart… baby…” 

And when they eventually pull away to look at each other, Tony’s expression so soft and caring, it just feels so natural to say it, so completely right and unequivocal...

“I love you so much.”

And Tony’s kiss afterwards is so gentle, so perfect, everything he’s been missing and wanting as he’s lain in bed alone...


	31. Chapter 31

“These your kids?”

Tony is looking at the framed photos on the mantelpiece.

“Yeah.”  He doesn’t elaborate.  And while before it might have been reticence or wariness or the suspicion that Tony doesn’t really give a fuck, now mainly it’s just exhaustion, that carrying on a conversation is more and more becoming too much of an effort.

“Look at you with hair.”  Clearly here referring to the wedding portrait he and Cindy had had taken – the happy couple they once were.  “Handsome – like a movie star.”

He allows himself a slight smile at the compliment.  Not that he has ever considered that physical attraction plays much of a role in their relationship, but he supposes it’s still nice to hear.

“How old were you there?”

“Twenty-four.  We got married right after I graduated.”  And it doesn’t even surprise or bother him anymore that it doesn’t bother him to tell Tony these sorts of things – that in his mind the marriage is over and he owes Cindy nothing.

“From college?”

“From the Academy.”

“Oh.”  Like he’d forgotten for a moment.  Then, “When was that?” 

When he had actually thought that being an FBI Agent would make a difference.  But he knows that’s not what Tony’s asking.

“Eighty-nine.”  And he wonders if Tony is doing the math to realize that he’ll probably be dead before his forty-third birthday.  He’s done the math.

But Tony is just now joining him again on the sofa, and so he curls up against Tony’s side and tries to forget that fact, focuses instead on how warm Tony feels, the arms now encircling him and drawing him in close strong and comforting against the coldness creeping in everywhere.

He closes his eyes.  It’s 2:00 and Hannah will be home soon.  But there’s still time to enjoy this while it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming that Agent Harris is the same age as Matt Servitto the actor since no age is officially given for Agent Harris - maybe not a correct assumption since there are some indications he may be older (Harris tells Tony about being a rookie presumably before Phil Leotardo went away to do his 20 year prison term, thus making him at least around 45 if not older?).


	32. Chapter 32

They have established a new routine to replace the old one of sneaking off to hotels together, meeting clandestinely for sex and room service dinners and secret companionship.

Now the ritual consists of driving to Dwight’s house every morning, carefully to avoid tails, and only after Dwight’s wife has left for work and his kids for school.  Still, it’s earlier than he’s generally accustomed to being out the door.  

_ “Are you going to sleep?” _

_ “Maybe.  You know I get up at 7:30 to come over here.  You try getting up that early every day and see how you feel.” _

_ It’s a joke, and Dwight must realize it because he’s smiling, and it’s almost like before, except that they’re lying in Dwight’s bed in Dwight’s house, surrounded by bottles of pills and the other accouterments of the dying, and it’s 10:15 in the morning and they’re curling up together for a nap because Dwight is always tired now, and there’s nothing much else to do here at this hour of the morning anyway. _

But if Carmela has noticed she hasn’t mentioned it – not really – and he’s made well sure to keep her content and quiet with financing for her various real estate ventures.

Previously he would ring the doorbell, wait for Dwight to answer, always conscious of who might be around, who might be watching.  And Dwight would always look happy to see him, tired, and face sometimes lined with pain, but still happy, would let him in and then close the door behind him.

But more recently he lets himself in, with the key Dwight has given him, and he understands that it’s because it’s not always easy for Dwight to get down the stairs to open the door – that sometimes there’s vertigo or muscle weakness or just plain exhaustion.  Understands that this is not a good sign.

They’ve had sex once.

_ “Tony, make love to me.” _

_ “You feeling better today?”  He doesn’t really seem any better, but he supposes he can always hope. _

_ “I just want to feel you again.”  And it’s a little morbid, like the last goodbye fuck before he’s going to die, and he’s still a little dubious, but Dwight’s eyes on his are so earnest, and the way he kisses Tony’s hand cupped around his face is so insistently sweet that he gives in. _

_ And it’s a little messy, with cooking oil and no condom, but they put down some old beach towels and hope for the best. _

_ Dwight doesn’t actually come (and he has never imagined that someone else not having an orgasm would leave him feeling so unsatisfied), but doesn’t seem to be in any discomfort either, still seems satisfied with the outcome as he curls into Tony’s arms after they finish. _

_ Any Tony just holds him tight and tries not to feel like he’s lost him already. _

And he misses the sex, he does, and doesn’t really even feel much like being with anyone else either, but honestly maybe he misses the company even more – the way they would sit and talk after sex and during dinner – sports, history, current events, family things.  Dwight is smart, and interesting, and nice to talk to, and knows a lot about a lot of shit.

But lately Dwight is not so big on conversation – seems a little too easily confused and distracted.  And it scares him to see him like this, reminds him that the end could be very close.  And so mostly they just watch TV – documentaries and old movies – Dwight’s tastes running pretty similarly to his own as far as that goes – and he holds Dwight close as Dwight often just drifts in and out of sleep in his arms.

They are mostly alone, except now they are joined by Hannah when he stays later in the afternoons, since  she apparently already knows, and apparently for whatever reasons of her own isn’t bothered by the situation.

_ The sound of a key turning in the lock startles him, and he instinctually puts some distance between Dwight and himself.  And Dwight seems puzzled as well. _

_ “What are you doing  _ _ home so  _ _ early?” _

_ “Half day.” _

_ And there is an awkward pause, as the girl whom he recognizes from multiple family photos as Hannah, the eldest daughter, stands there, clearly unsure whether to stay or to go or what to say, whether to focus her attention on her father or her father’s unknown guest. _

_ “This is Tony.  He’s a friend from work.”  And it’s clear from both Dwight’s awkwardness with the introduction and Hannah’s confused expression that Dwight does not have friends from work who come by the house to sit on the family room sofa with her terminally ill father. _

_ But she smiles shyly and says hi, gives her father an almost too careful hug and kiss and then excuses herself to her room. _

_ Dwight follows her with his eyes as she leaves, but doesn’t seem unduly concerned, and when he asks Dwight if he should leave Dwight says no. _

_ And so he stays. _

And…

_ “Shouldn’t we be more careful?”   _ _ A week or so later as _ _ Dwight is resting his cheek against Tony’s shoulder, snuggling against him on the couch with Hannah just upstairs. _

_ “It’s okay – she already knows anyway.” _

_ And when he apparently realizes that Tony is about to ask for clarification, just to make sure.  “I think she saw something.  Anyway it’s okay.  She won’t tell.  She doesn’t mind.” _

_ And it’s a little hard to believe, but then again they do seem quite close, Hannah so solicitous and doting, and if Dwight is okay with it… _

_ He slides his arm around Dwight’s body, pulls him in closer so he is nestled against his side. _

He doesn’t really know what Dwight tells her, can’t really ask, and Dwight doesn’t elaborate, but she always seems  adequately friendly, and so careful of her father’s comfort and happiness, and it’s  almost  like they’re a  real little family together – he on one side and she on the other – both wanting to spend as much time as possible with someone they love and care for before the inevitable end.  


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My one anon reader had requested a scene like this back in the day. At the time I couldn’t think of anything that would fit the bill or mesh with the story, but then this popped into my head the other night. It’s obviously meant to occur a lot later in the story, but I thought I’d write and post it anyway. Just in case my anon is still around. I'm sure you can figure out what's supposed to be going on.

It had been a random comment from Hesh, even though they weren’t necessarily on the best of terms these days.

_“I heard about this clinic – down in... South America… Mexico maybe… anyway, supposedly they’re working on some new technique that could revolutionize the treatment for various types of brain tumors.  Apparently the initial tests have been very successful.”_

_And his attention perks immediately, though he keeps it carefully concealed behind a practiced cloak of disinterested disdain.  “Oh yeah?”_

_Because when has a clinic in South America or Mexico ever not been a scam, and even if it isn’t…  Even if it isn’t, and even if this… procedure... does work, and even if maybe South America could be the perfect place to lam it for a while if it came down to that, now that he thinks about it, what are the chances that this thing could even work out – this... relationship... between him and Dwight… Harris – even if he could convince him to go – or that he could even trust these South Americans, or whoever the fuck, for a second anyway?_

_And while he’s still thinking it over, still trying to figure out exactly what questions he might ask without appearing suspiciously over-interested in a topic he’s never cared much about in the past, even if it’s doubtful anyone could guess the reason why, Hesh has gone back to ignoring him while reading his paper anyway, that same uncomfortable tension that’s characterized their relationship as of late, so he lets it drop for the time being, figures they can always revisit it again later if need be, if he decides this is really something he wants to pursue._

The outer office is small and unremarkable, sparsely and inexpensively furnished… like they had just moved in a month ago and could pick up and leave at any time without any notice.  Nice.  But upon reflection, probably not terribly surprising or any more disturbing than anything else he already knows about these people.

The reception desk is unoccupied and nearly barren – no indication that anyone is here at all really – except that the door had been unlocked and he does after all have an appointment.

_“That clinic I mentioned a few weeks ago – the cancer research?”_

_“Yeah – in South Africa – wherever the fuck.”_

_“A business associate of mine knows someone who knows one of the owners.  Turns out, they might need a small favor.”_

_“How small?”_

_“Someone might have to go.”_

_And can it really be that easy – that he could barter a life for a life?  That this whole arrangement could just fall right into his lap (not that Dwight would likely approve, but he really wouldn’t have to know about it, would he, and it’d be nothing worse than anything he’s already done that Dwight probably already suspects or knows about)._

_Either way, it’s at least worth looking into._

_“Yeah, well, set something up.”_

He tries to decide what to make of Dr. Zeta Olenska.  Good looking he supposes – one of those women who doesn’t really look young, but doesn’t exactly look old either – dark hair, nice figure from what he can tell, though it’s somewhat obscured by the crisp white lab coat she’s wearing – tall, a somewhat severe face with an expression that somehow manages to look menacing despite what he assumes is intended to be an inviting smile.  She reminds him of someone, but he can’t quite place it.

“Mr. Soprano, I presume.  I’ve been looking forward to our meeting.”  Voice formal and businesslike, completely devoid of any discernable accent – maybe not actually foreign then?  Or maybe that’s just how she likes to come across.

“Likewise.”

He gives her another once over as she ushers him into the inner office, the decor, or lack thereof, matching that of the outer.  She seats herself behind the desk taking up the majority of the space in the small room, gestures for him to take the only other chair opposite, folds her hands neatly in front of her.

“I take it Mr. Rabkin has apprised you of the… situation… with which we require your assistance.”

The cunt from the hospital – the insurance utilization expert or whatever the fuck – that’s who she reminds him of – that same bloodless, chilly demeanor under that thin veneer of congeniality.  But maybe not quite as condescending – more like a hawk watching its prey maybe, or a snake.  Either way, he can’t let that distract him – not when he needs something that she may supposedly be able to provide.  And he pushes the mental image of Dwight lying so still and wan in bed firmly from his mind.

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me out with something too.”

“Oh, yes?”  If she’s surprised or caught off guard she doesn’t show it.

“It’s a little delicate.  Cousin of mine, who I’m very close to, was actually diagnosed with this… cancer of the brain… glioblastoma – some shit… and I remembered Hesh told me, you specialize in this sort of thing.”

He pauses a moment, maybe in case she’d like to say something sympathetic.  All he gets, however, is a slight nod to continue, that same mask like expression.  He suppresses a surge of irritation.

“Now the doctors say… it’s terminal – nothing they can do.  But I thought…”

She waits a beat, as if not sure he’s finished speaking, and then starts in with a line that sounds like it’s been rehearsed for a promotional video.  “Of course.  We have had a great deal of success treating these types of conditions, and most of our test cases have indeed been what other clinicians would consider to be terminal.”

And it’s all a little too slick and easy, like the offer’s been tailor made just for him.  And he almost reconsiders the whole operation, except that…

“So you think this could work then?”

“I’d have to take a look at your cousin’s actual diagnosis and test results, but, tentatively, yes.”

Fair enough, he decides, at least worth investigating further.  Especially with Dwight and the way things –

“So, ah, where exactly is this place?”

“Our clinical facility is located along Mexico’s Gulf Coast.  It’s quite picturesque really.  I’m sure your cousin will find it quite pleasant.”  Like something out of a vacation sales brochure no doubt...

“And would I be able to accompany him there?”

“Of course, if you like.”

He considers that – leaving the country, maybe permanently, a hopefully no longer terminally ill Dwight Harris in tow.  He’d need somewhere to stay – either completely incognito or among people he could trust – no telling at this point which would be easier to arrange or ultimately more secure – just that maybe this could be just the opening he’s looking for.  “What about privacy – that sort of thing?  I’m looking to… stay out of the public eye a little more lately.”

Her response is smooth and utterly unflappable, like this happens all the time.  “Many of our guests desire both anonymity and seclusion, and it can be easily arranged and provided.”

 _Easily arranged…_  “Well, that all sounds very... nice.”  And almost too good to be true.

She smiles, cold and ingratiating.  “Yes, I’m sure we’ll be able to work out all the pertinent details to your satisfaction.  But in the meantime…”

“You’re little problem…”

She reaches into a drawer, withdraws a manila folder and places it on the desk between them, flips it open to reveal a photograph and a typed slip of paper.  He leans forward to examine it, draws back in reproach.

“It’s a little girl.”  Blond, maybe 13 or 14, dressed like a little street punk, but still certainly not deserving of the fate apparently in store for her.

Olenska flashes that same smile – predatory and dangerous.  “Don’t underestimate her.  She’ll probably kill whomever you send after her.  No matter – it’s only important that a valid attempt be made.”

“Valid attempt…”  He could almost laugh if not for the fact that Hesh had assured him these people are for real, but her attitude, the intended victim, the utter assurance she seems to feel that this _child_ …

If she senses his incredulity and reluctance, it however does not deter her.  “No guns.  It needs to be close range.  She needs to be aware that her life is in danger and be given the opportunity to defend herself.  Make it look like an attempted rape or kidnapping.”  And here she has the good grace to at least look slightly perturbed by her own words at the end there.  But still…

Still, if this can all work out, he supposes it’s a small price to pay, and it’s not like they can’t just get someone else to do it if he backs out.  And crazy as it all seems, it still sounds better than ending up trying to hide out in some flea infested hick town somewhere with indictments likely getting closer every day.  Not to mention Dwight, the way things have been going lately...

He shrugs, momentarily shoving lingering misgivings and distractions to the side.  “Well, the customer’s always right.”

She smiles that icily smooth smile again.  “I’ll have my assistant contact you with any other information you may need with regards to this... or your cousin.”

The interview clearly at an end, he gets up to take his leave, attempts to put the disquieting oddness of the encounter behind him as he makes his way back to his car, and instead focus on how exactly he plans on selling all this (with the obvious exception of the murder for hire aspect of course) to his reluctant to leave his familial obligations in favor of running off to dubiously trustworthy foreign clinics lover.


	34. Chapter 34

She looks so very much like him – same eyes, same mouth, same features and bone structure, though drawn on a much more delicate scale, the same dark hair he’s seen in photographs of Dwight as a younger man, same patiently inquisitive expression he’s become so used to seeing on Dwight’s face, though lined now with worry and fatigue.  

They are not exactly close, the two of them.  But they have developed what he feels is a mutual understanding over these past few weeks shared caring for her father – worried glances exchanged over Dwight’s restlessly sleeping form, quietly voiced discussions of symptoms and medications when she has returned home from school in the afternoons, both doing what they can to keep Dwight comfortable and distracted and entertained.  

To keep Dwight alive.

And now she is waiting to hear what he has to say.

_She is waiting in the hall as he exits Dwight’s room, having given them a few moments alone to say their good-byes, and he gestures silently for her to follow him down the stairs._

He clears his throat – so awkward the idea of having to ask her of all people for help – especially given the nature of the request (and he does feel a little guilty), but time is running out, and this needs to happen now.

_“Based on what you’re telling me, your cousin probably doesn’t have much time left.  He needs to come in now_ – _the sooner the better.”_

He needs to make this happen now.

“Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, and I know this is awkward, but I also know you love your father very much and… want what’s best for him.”

A muscle tightens at the corner of her mouth, and she looks for a moment off to the side, hair falling loosely across her face.  Her arms cross over her chest like she’s hugging herself, trying to keep herself warm, like how they tuck blankets and quilts around Dwight’s now too cool to the touch body, trying to keep him warm.

“Now I know how this is gonna sound… but I found this place, this clinic, where they might be able to help your father, and I want him to go there with me.”

She’s looking at him again now, pensively, assessingly, pushing her hair back behind one ear, finger and thumb moving to tug apprehensively at her lower lip.

“Now, the thing is… he don’t wanna go, because he doesn’t wanna leave you and your brother and sister – like it wouldn’t be right, and he doesn’t think it’ll work anyway.  But if he stays here…”

If he stays here, he’ll surely die, and they both know that, and it can remain unsaid.

She lets out a slow breath.  “You want me to talk to him.”  

It’s not exactly a statement, but not really a question either – like she understands perfectly well what he’s asking her and why, that she is probably the one person in the unique position of being able to change his mind on this matter – and it all reminds him so much of the man lying in bed upstairs, so sick and so pale, whom he’d just kissed good-bye not five minutes ago – the reserved, matter-of-fact demeanor, analytical mind, but everything still edged with a sort of softness that prevents the perception of unfeeling coldness.  And maybe it’s really no wonder the two of them seem so close.

And he’s pretty sure she’s just agreed to it – just that statement being all that is needed, because certainly she must understand the gravity of the situation, but just for good measure, just to make sure...

“For obvious reasons, the sooner this can happen the better.  And I promise you, whatever happens, he’ll be taken care of.  I’ll be with him the whole time... if there’s even a chance this thing can work...”

And he leaves out the rest – just for now – if there’s even a chance this thing can work, then hopefully he won’t be coming back either way, and either way it’ll be good-bye possibly forever – but surely better that he be alive and happy somewhere unknown and far away than the other ultimate alternative.

Except… except for that eventuality that had somehow taken a while to occur to him – that what if Dwight actually gets well, and then wants to return home.  But hopefully he won’t (want to that is), because hopefully he’s been meaning it when he says ‘I love you’.  Or at least hopefully he won’t be able to, because there’ve been little hints – that maybe his former co-workers suspect, and that maybe his wife suspects.  And just how far should he go to make sure those suspicions become fully realized – that coming home would mean not only a certain divorce but maybe also a certain indictment for conspiracy to commit murder.

But Hannah is looking at him now, really looking, and is it suspicion he sees, or merely indecision?  And he wonders, and not for the first time really wonders, just what Dwight has been telling her about him, about them, about everything – and not even like she can’t watch TV and read the newspaper for herself.  But does she suspect...

But her expression is clearing, becoming resolute, like she’s putting whatever doubts and questions she might have out of her mind...

“I’ll talk to him.”

And so he smiles, relieved, squeezes her arm and thanks her before walking out the door, planning his next moves.


	35. Chapter 35

He tiredly opens his eyes as Hannah climbs carefully into bed beside him, lies down curled at his side with her head resting against his shoulder.  

_ “So come on – what do you say?” _

She’s been gone a while – longer than it had taken him and Tony to kiss their good-byes.

_ “Remember what we talked about.  It needs to happen soon.” _

And it could be coincidence.  But he’d heard the back door shut, and then he’d heard her footsteps coming up the stairs.  And he can’t help but wonder...

“Were you talking to Tony?”

She raises her head slightly, and he looks over at her.  

“Yeah…”  Slow, like she’s thinking too much about what she intends to say… or maybe what’s been said to her.

“About what?”

He knows what though.  

_ “Look, that clinic I told you about – I know you think it’s a scam, but if there’s even a chance… don’t you think you should take it… I mean, what are the alternatives...” _

_ “Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?”   _

_ “I’m tryin’...”  _

Or at least he thinks he does.  And Hannah’s hesitation pretty much seals it.

“He wants you to go somewhere with him.”  She looks vaguely apologetic.  “Don’t be mad.”

He tries to force a smile for her, even though he feels like shit – medication really feeling like it’s not doing much today, reaches up and gently squeezes her hand in his.  

“I’m not mad.”  And why should he be – at Tony for just being Tony, at Hannah whom he’d dragged into this when really he should have been so much more appropriately careful.

_ “Is Tony your boyfriend?”   _

_ They’ve become so close lately – he and his daughter who everyone says looks just like him, who what with his job and then his illness and then this thing with Tony he probably hasn’t paid nearly enough attention to until now – when it’s practically too late. _

_ He is sitting on the edge of her bed. _

_ He is thinking of all the little things he should probably never have allowed to happen had he really intended to keep this a secret from her.  And wondering why he had allowed them. _

_ “Does that bother you?”   _

_ He feels like it should bother her.  It should bother a person to find out that their father is gay… or something… and cheating on their mother with… he’s not really sure what else Hannah knows or suspects about Tony – but with anyone really. _

_ She doesn’t seem bothered – just sort of thoughtfully intent, like she’s trying to figure something out – the strange man who seems so consistently constantly at her house, so solicitous of her dying father, so at home so close at his side. _

_ And he realizes belatedly that that had probably been a de facto ‘yes’. _

_ “Are you in love with him?”  Tentative and hesitant, because even now this is still not the sort of thing they discuss. _

_ “I don’t know.  I think so.”   _

_ And he feels a little guilty because maybe he wants it to be, because he’s had no one to talk to for so long, and Hannah seems now so sympathetic, such a willing confidant. _

_ And she is just now pushing her school books aside, moving to sit beside him with her cheek resting softly against his shoulder. _

_ “Is he in love with you?” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ She slides an arm around his waist, presses her cheek against his throat.  “He comes over to take care of you when you’re sick, so he must love you.” _

_ He smiles ruefully against her hair.  “Maybe you’re right.”  Kisses the top of her head. _

_ Tries to feel guilty that his daughter should know these things, that they should be sitting here discussing the emotional entanglements inherent to his adulterous liaison with another man, but really he’s just relieved – relieved that this is at least one person he no longer has to hide from, no longer has to lie to, that maybe he will now be able to die with at least one relationship left mostly intact.  _

_ She kisses his cheek, hugs him momentarily tighter.  “It doesn’t bother me.  It’s nice – that you have someone to take care of you.” _

It’s nice that he has Hannah to talk to, and he pulls her in close so they are holding each other snugly as they lie there side by side.

“I just… whatever it is they do there – it’s probably just a scam.  It’s probably not going to do anything.  And I don’t want to leave you… and Robert and Ingrid.”  Can’t forget them, even though in the ever widening division running throughout their household they’re really more Cindy’s kids, just as Hannah has become his.

Her arm tightens around him, and she is quiet a long while.

Then, “I think you should go.”  Murmured softly against his throat.  “I don’t want to watch you die.”  Her voice catching in a way that is painful for him to hear.

“Sweetheart…”  He reaches up to gently stroke her hair, because really there isn’t anything else he can say.

“He wants to leave soon.”  And now her voice is resolute, brave, and he wonders if that means he can leave without feeling guilty.

Because really Tony is right, and all he’ll really be depriving her of is the last few weeks of watching him waste slowly away and die.  And whether his body is here in the ground or somewhere elsewhere unknown shouldn’t really make a difference – not in any real way.

Because he harbors no illusions about this supposed treatment and whether or not it will work. Because they’ve already been over all the treatment options again and again, exhaustively, and there’s nothing left, not even as an experimental long shot – nothing anyone he has seen has even hinted at.

Except – 

“Daddy…”  And she raises herself up on one elbow to look down at him, long hair falling around both their faces.  “What if it works?”

Except that maybe there is another possibility that he does not allow himself to consider. 

“...Then I’ll come home.”

And maybe this is why – because it’s the real decision he can’t yet bring himself to make – the real choice he should feel guilty over.

She gives him a complicated look which he cannot immediately decipher, but which maybe he doesn’t need to as she kisses him softly on the forehead and then returns silently to lie at his side.


	36. Chapter 36

It is the night time - her time alone with her father - as opposed to the morning, which he spends with Tony, and the afternoon, which they all spend more or less together.  Occasionally they speak, and she has gotten to know him better in these past few weeks than she has over the course of her entire lifetime with him, but more and more she just watches as he sleeps.

He is sleeping now, or at least resting quietly, and she knows it is one of the last nights they’ll spend together, because Tony has asked him to leave, and he has said yes.

_ “I talked to Tony this morning.”  He pauses to look at her, study her face.  And she already knows what he’s going to say next. _

_ “I told him I’d go.” _

_ Because she’d told him to say it - told him, not in so many words, but still told him, to spend his last few weeks or days alive resting somewhere comfortably with his lover instead of here in this purgatory of carefully divided schedules and spaces, somewhere where she won’t have to watch him waste completely away, somewhere he can enjoy some measure of peace and happiness. _

_ “When?”  The one word is all she can manage, but she knows he’ll understand. _

_ “A few days - maybe day after tomorrow.” _

_ “That soon?”  Because it still takes her by surprise, even though she’d already known, and even though he’s looking at her apologetically like he’ll reconsider if she asks him to. _

_ “Do you want me to tell him to wait?” _

_ “No.”  No, because later may be too late.  And, like Tony had said, if there’s even a chance whatever it is they do there can work.  “It’s probably better - sooner.” _

_ And Tony’s parting words to them take on a new significance to her now - him leaving so early - barely after she’d arrived home. _

_ “I gotta go.  I gotta take care of a few things.  Take care of your father for me.”  Perfunctory kisses good-bye and then he’d been out the door. _

She’s dreading him leaving, dreading it in a way that makes her feel physically ill at times, though the spectre of his impending death has been looming over them for seemingly ages now.  And this time she won’t only be losing a father often too busy with work to make time for her, and losing him only for a few months.  This time she’ll be losing someone who’s also become the friend and confidante she’s always wanted - an ally in a household run by a mother who resents her for reminding her too much of a husband who’s been too much of a disappointment.  And this time it’ll be forever.

_ Her world is falling apart.  It’s been falling apart for months, but now it’s really happening. _

_ “Your mother and I need to talk to you about something.” _

_ And it’s obvious he’s found out, and they’re getting a divorce.  Or maybe she’s told him, and she’s leaving him to go be with her boyfriend or whatever, but either way it’s over, and any chance of having a normal, happy family is gone forever. _

_ But at least now the internal debate can be over - should she tell him, should she not, is she just imagining the whole thing and really everything is fine.  And maybe he’ll be staying here for good, or at least staying somewhere in the States, and she can go live with him, and then maybe it won’t all be so bad. _

_ But then, “I have cancer.  It’s still early, and the doctors think it’s treatable…” _

_ And it’s like time stops and she wishes she could rewind to three weeks ago when her father had still been in Pakistan, and all she had had to worry about was should she tell him, and risk tearing her family apart, or not tell him and betray the trust of the parent who actually seems to like her.  Because it’s clear from his eyes and his tone and the way his words trail off that this is far from a sure thing, and people die from cancer all the time. _

_ She can’t bring herself to look at her mother.  She has an idea that she’d looked tense when she’d first come in the room, but now she can’t bring herself to want to know her mother’s reaction to all this.  Is she sorry she cheated?  Is she staying with him?  Is she (God forbid, and she tries to dismiss the thought even before it finishes forming) glad that she might soon be rid of him? _

_ She imagines that her mother knows she knows - that her mother has sent her little challenging looks - you’d better not say anything.  Except that maybe it’s been all in her head and the phone calls and nights out have just been with friends - female friends - from work or church or wherever. _

_ Either way, she won’t be saying anything now, not unless her mother lets the cat out of the bag first, and not with her father’s health and continued well-being hanging in the balance. _

She knows it’s partly selfish - her not wanting him to die.  Not when he finally has time for her and not when she’s finally become important to him.  Not when it’ll mean being left alone with her mother - again.

_ “This would all be a lot easier if your father was actually around to take care of it.”   _

_ And it’s always  _ her _ father, as if she had been personally responsible for bringing him into her mother’s life.  As if his choice of a career involving long and irregular hours and now an extended assignment overseas had been her doing - living in New Jersey, her father’s lack of interest or participation in any sort of social life, the fact the he’s not romantic or spontaneous, the fact that her mother is now stuck raising three kids while her father works all the time, and this isn’t what she’d originally bargained for - all her fault. _

_ And now she’s stuck trying to get her brother and sister ready for school while her mother silently fumes and tries to make arrangements to get to work with a car that won’t start.  And she’s counting the minutes until she can leave for the bus because she knows from experience that it’s only a matter of time before her mother’s frustrations with her father and with life in general transmute themselves into frustrations with her, and she’d rather not be around when that happens. _

They mostly just seem to avoid each other now - her mother and father - like it’s some unspoken arrangement.  And as long as she’s with her father, caring for him and tending to him, she can avoid her mother as well.  And it’s like they’re co-conspirators together - all their little secrets - her complicity in her father’s affair with Tony an act of secret revenge against her mother.

_ He’s sitting on the edge of her bed, looking tired and worn out. _

_ She suspects that part of the reason he’s here is simply to avoid her mother, but it doesn’t really matter.  And either way, she can sympathize. _

_ He’s asking about school and they’re making small talk.  And then it happens. _

_ “Is Tony your boyfriend?”  Because it’s been on the tip of her tongue more than once, but she’s always held back.  Because of course her father isn’t like that. _

_ But then again, probably just friends aren’t usually like that either - there almost every day, that protective, almost territorial air Tony has - the way he hovers so attentively over her father. _

_ “Does that bother you?”   _

_ It doesn’t bother her.  Maybe if her mother hadn’t started things first, or if her mother had ever been nice to her, but no, it’s never even crossed her mind to be upset over the thought of the two of them like that - just to be confused by it, because it seems so strange and unlike her father.  Or at least unlike what she knows of him. _

_ “Are you in love with him?”   _

_ “I don’t know.  I think so.”  And he seems almost shy, and it’s kind of sweet really, like a girlfriend at school admitting to a secret crush on the cute boy in class.  But she doesn’t really have girlfriends. _

_ “Is he in love with you?” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ Except that maybe now she has something better, as she curls around him and cuddles him close, and they can share everything now and talk about anything. _

_ “He comes over to take care of you when you’re sick, so he must love you.” _

_ “Maybe you’re right.”  He kisses her hair and holds her tight, and that feels so nice - the physical affection and attention she’s always craved and never really received. _

_ “It doesn’t bother me.  It’s nice – that you have someone to take care of you.” _

And it’s been nice, to feel like an integral part of a close-knit, loving little family group - her and Tony and her dad - this perfect, idealized set of relationships.  But she’s always know that it can’t last, and now they’re leaving, and Tony will be taking care of her father somewhere else far, far away, without her.

And so she curls closer around her father’s sleeping form, trying to enjoy and commit to memory these last few moments of togetherness for as long as they’ll last.


	37. Chapter 37

He’s done this before, prepared for this before, but never really like this.

Because this time there’s potentially no coming back.  Or at least that’s the plan.

_“Our private jet will be waiting for you at the gate – scheduled departure time of 6:30am.  Flight time will be approximately four hours, and we can start the procedure soon after your arrival.  Your accommodations have been arranged, and as we’ve discussed, contact with our staff will be kept to a minimum.  Our facility is quite secluded so you should have all the privacy you desire.”_

He could still back out – take his chances.

_“Look, trials are there to be won.”_

But ultimately it’s not Mink’s ass on the line – he not being the one potentially spending the rest of his life in the can.

He’s already told Carm he’ll be leaving for a while – a week or two just until this thing with the indictments blows over.

She had given him a hard look, and he had wondered what she had been thinking.

But she hadn’t asked any questions, had only turned and started helping him pack, and part of him had wondered if she’d even miss him at all.

He still wonders, but not as much, because as he’s spending his last few hours here in the house they had shared together before going to pick up his lover and leave, she’s out at a meeting with some contractor or decorator or some shit.  And now maybe all that’s left to wonder is to what extent she’s already written him off.

He’s not leaving her much.  He had thought about it.  But in the end, fuck her.  She’ll be getting exactly what she deserves.

_“You’re entitled to shit.”_

And he doesn’t think beyond the anger either, because fuck Melfi and all her analysis bullshit.

He has already been over to Dwight’s house this morning.  Hannah had been there – home from school to spend a final day with her father he supposes – and the two of them had packed Dwight’s things – the things he will be taking anyway.

He had considered asking her – exactly what they had told her mother, Dwight’s wife, what had been discussed, what had been left unsaid.  But he and Hannah don’t really talk – not much – and so he had only watched as she had tucked a few photographs into Dwight’s luggage – some older looking family photos, and then the ones they had taken together.

_“Will you take a picture of me and my father?  I don’t have anything recent…”  And she hands him an inexpensive looking digital camera.  And she and Dwight huddle together and try to smile in a way that doesn’t look fragile and sad._

_And then he joins them because he doesn’t have a single tangible reminder of his and Dwight’s time together either._

He tries to decide what he really thinks about Dwight’s chances of survival; how much of what he is doing is for Dwight and the two of them, and how much is just for himself.

He would be leaving either way.  He tells himself that.  And Carm wouldn’t be coming either way.  He knows that.  He knows that now.

He might still even be headed for the same destination were it not for Dwight.

But with Dwight… it’s like there’s a chance for a future.  A chance for happiness.  If only…

_“Tony, I’ll do it.  I’ll go.”_

And Olenska seems so credible, so confident in her and her clinic’s abilities to save Dwight.  

_“I’ve been over all the test results you sent me, and from what I can see your cousin appears to be an ideal candidate for our procedure.”_

But there are still no guarantees, even if she is for real.  And with the stakes so high, it’s hard to be objective.

He takes a last look around.  Pauses briefly, and then removes his wedding ring – since this time this is for real.  Almost leaves it on the nightstand, but then reconsiders.

_“I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”_

He’s not going to call, and there isn’t exactly any hotel.  But maybe he also doesn’t want his cover blown quite so quickly.  

He slips the ring into his pocket, briefly examines his hand without it.

Just a few more things, and his preparations will be complete.

He’s meeting Dwight at midnight, and they’re driving through the night to make a 6:30 flight to Mexico.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several of the italicized flashback lines were taken from the actual show:
> 
> “Look, trials are there to be won.” - Neil Mink, Tony's lawyer, S6E21 - Made in America  
> You can see this scene in the YouTube video entitled 'Tony Angry with Ketchup - The Sopranos (HD)'
> 
> “You’re entitled to shit.” - Tony Soprano to Carmela, S5E9 - Unidentified Black Males  
> You can see this scene in the YouTube video entitled 'Can't divorce Tony Soprano'


	38. Chapter 38

He’s agreed to do this.  They’ve all discussed it, and they’ve all decided it’s for the best.

_ “A friend of mine told me about this clinic… he thinks I should go.” _

_ “A friend of yours.”  It’s more a statement than a question.  A sarcastic statement, because Cindy isn’t completely blind, and she’s caught Tony over at the house enough times to be suspicious. _

_ And she’s currently giving him this look like ‘where do I even begin to start with this one?’ _

_ “Okay… where is it?  What exactly are they going to do for you there?” _

_ And he can’t say, because he doesn’t know, and somehow hadn’t really ever thought to ask. _

_ “How exactly do you think we’re going to pay for this, or is your ‘friend’ going to take care of it?” _

_ He assumes his ‘friend’ is going to take care of it.  Though they’ve never explicitly discussed it.  And somehow it’s the first time he’s really thought about what he would owe Tony in return if this thing actually works. _

_ But it almost certainly won’t. _

_ And Cindy is standing there massaging her temples with one hand while the other is wrapped protectively around her, like she’s deep in thought, and thinking about something unpleasant. _

_ And he knows she’s thinking about life insurance payouts and Social Security benefits and will Tony Soprano still be here hanging around their almost seventeen year old daughter after her husband is dead.  _

_ “Is that Tony Soprano?”  And her voice contains equal parts surprise and concern as she’s watching as Hannah closes the front door behind his departing form, watching them say good-bye like his presence here is a common occurrence. _

_ “Yeah.”  Though he’d only introduced him as Tony – of course she’d know. _

_ “What’s he doing here?”  In her house, sitting on her sofa, apparently on friendly terms with both her husband and her daughter – he knows that’s what she’s thinking, and her dismay and irritation are all too apparent. _

_ “He came by to see how I’m doing.” _

_ “Well, what does he care?” _

_ And she’s looking between him and the view out the window – watching Tony drive away – expression growing ever more incredulous with each passing second. _

_ “I don’t know.  He’s just… trying to be nice.” _

And it’s all so complicated – such a mess – and he knows they’re both at their wit’s end with all this.

_ “Okay.  If you want to go, then go.  Maybe it’s for the best anyway.” _

Maybe she’s watching out the window.  Or maybe she isn’t.  She’d barely been able to look at them as they’d gathered up his things, made their way down to the car.

Not Tony’s car, he’s noticed.  Maybe a rental.  It doesn’t matter.

He holds Hannah close as she kisses him good-bye, their last few moments together as Tony arranges the luggage, closes the back hatch and walks around to the driver’s side door.  She’s crying, but she’s also helping him into the car.

He’s sorry to be doing this to her.  Like he’d been sorry watching her pack – watching her and Tony dividing up his things – the things she’d wanted to keep as mementos and the things he apparently wants for himself (because certainly he’s not going to be needing an FBI field jacket wherever it is they’re going, but maybe it just reminds Tony of how they’d initially met, their time together here before the end).

He’d left Hannah his wedding ring and his watch, more sentimental than valuable, but she’d seemed appreciative, and now she’s letting her fingertips linger on the wall of glass now separating them.

He can here Tony start the ignition behind him, let’s his hand slide down to his lap as Hannah backs a few steps away from the car.

He watches her as they pull away, until they turn and she’s hidden from his view.

_ “I love you, daddy.  Try to call or write or whatever… if you can…” _

Because though it’s remained mostly unsaid, they both know – he’s leaving the country with a soon to be wanted felon.  And there’s no coming back from that – not really, not easily.

“You comfy over there?”  Tony’s voice startles him out of the silence of his thoughts – a little awkward and edged with tension now, now that they’ve both finally committed to this path together.

“Yeah.”  He tugs his coat tighter around him, not sure if the midnight air is actually chilly or if it’s just him.

“Warm enough?  I can turn on the heat.”

“No, I’m fine.”  And he gives Tony what he intends to be a reassuring smile, but which probably only looks tired and pained.

“Okay.”  Tony looks tired too, and a little worried beneath the smile he’s put on no doubt for his benefit, but he reaches up to stroke his cheek, and it’s soft and sweet and he can’t help leaning into it a little.  

“Try and get some sleep.  We got a long drive.”

“Where’re we going?”  He almost doesn’t ask, because it almost doesn’t matter.

And his eyes are already closing before Tony even answers.

“Airport – don’t worry about it.  I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

He’s not worried – the time is long past for that.  He’s only looking forward to lying warm and safe in bed somewhere, Tony wrapped closely around him, comforting narcotic haze drowning out all the pain and tension as Tony’s kisses and caresses lull him softly to sleep.


	39. Chapter 39

There’s a sense in which he can’t believe he’s really doing this.  A sense in which this feels like flying without a safety net for the first time in his life – like taking that theoretical job selling patio furniture on route 22 instead of taking the easy way out.

He hasn’t told anybody – not Paulie, not Mink, not even Hesh – and he’s the one who gave him the tip in the first place (and he wonders a little if he should be worried about that, but Olenska had promised absolute discretion in all their dealings).

But that brings up again the question of how far can he really trust these people and what does he really know about them.  There’s money secreted in his luggage and in overseas accounts, fake IDs and two 9 mms, a brand new burner phone and a head full of phone numbers, but even still – he’ll be at this clinic – some secluded retreat in the middle of fucking nowhere in a foreign country with no transportation and no close contacts and where he doesn’t even speak the language – no easy way out and totally at these people’s mercy should they chose to rat him out.  

But still, what are his other options?  Rely on people he knows who could still flip on him?  Hide out in some godforsaken hole somewhere and hope no one recognizes him every time he goes out to buy food?  Go to prison and hope like hell Mink can get him off?

And then there’s Dwight.  The one factor in all this he’s never considered before – that he might really fall for someone like this – not someone to be the wife and mother of his kids, not a goomah for sex and relaxation on the side, but something else, something different.

Dwight is… it’s hard to put it into words exactly, but there’s a way in which he feels like something he’s been waiting for his whole life.

He tries not to tense up every time he sees a cop on the road, makes sure he goes the speed limit.  It’s too early for anyone to notice him missing, Dwight’s wife and daughter being the only ones aware that he’s leaving.  Hannah he feels he can trust, especially since she doesn’t really know anything anyway.  The wife hadn’t even come down, and it’d been dark out, but even still, he’d made sure the plates on the rental car wouldn’t be readable even if she had been watching.  Not that she really knows anything either, but he has no real idea where she and Dwight stand, and certainly doesn’t want to take any chances.

_ “So... your wife know you’re leaving, and all that… ?” _

_ “She knows.” _

_ “And she’s okay with it?” _

_ And Dwight just sort of shrugs, looks away and looks uncomfortable, and he’s not exactly sure what to make of that, other than that he knows the wife knows he comes over, knows she must be suspicious, knows that Dwight’s relationship with her is strained to the point of breaking but at least still somewhat civil – supposedly.   _

_ Knows that Dwight is ready to leave her behind. _

“Are we in Northern Virginia?”

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by Dwight’s blearily voiced question, looks over to see Dwight looking around at the roadside signs with an expression of mild confusion.

“Yeah.”  He doesn’t elaborate.  Better that Dwight not know any details – just in case – just so he’d look less like a co-conspirator and more like a hapless victim.  

Then, “How you feelin’?”  Because he’s had this nagging fear the whole time he’s been driving that now that they’re so close to their goal Dwight is just going to drop dead in the car next to him and it’ll all be over.

Dwight rubs a hand tiredly over his forehead, adjusts the coat he’s fastened up snuggly around him.  “Okay.  Same.”  And he gives Tony a tight little smile, a bit pained and a bit forced but still sweetly sincere looking nonetheless.

Tony returns it in kind, reaches over to rest his hand carefully on Dwight’s thigh, gives a slight reassuring squeeze.

“Try and get some sleep – we got another couple hours.”

And Dwight looks like he’s on the verge of asking, but apparently reconsiders, instead just moves his hand down to cover Tony’s, fingers so worryingly cool against his skin.

And Tony returns his attention to the road, returns to counting up the hours and the miles until they’ll be home free, or at least so he hopes.


	40. Chapter 40

He allows his eyes to drift shut though it’s hard to really sleep.  He tries to decide on what exactly he’d been expecting, but realizes he had never really thought that far ahead, and that now it’s difficult to come up with something concrete in retrospect.

The private jet is large (and had he thought they’d be flying commercial?) and could easily accommodate more than just himself, Tony and the doctor he’d been introduced to – a Dr. Zeta Olenska, with whom Tony had seemed fairly familiar.

_ “Mr. Soprano, welcome aboard.  And you must be Tony’s cousin.” _

_ Tony’s cousin… but he only nods his assent and allows her to guide him to his seat, Tony following protectively close behind. _

_ “I’m Dr. Zeta Olenska.  I’ll be doing your pre-surgical work-up.  Some of it will have to wait until we’re on the ground, but there are a few things we can get out of the way right now.” _

_ She is professionally polished and courteous, almost to a fault, but something tells him that Tony doesn’t really like her.  Still, he’s making no protest as she moves in closer to do her examination, and so he doesn’t question her either. _

She is seemingly ignoring them now, sitting across the cabin at a small table typing something on her laptop, and Tony is holding his hand and occasionally gently stroking his face, an apparently acceptable level of physical affection for a favorite cousin who is now terminally ill and with whom he has always been close.

_ “You must feel fortunate to have a cousin who cares for you so deeply.”  And her smile is inviting in a practiced sort of way. _

_ And he’s not entirely sure what to say, not entirely sure how to take that – whether she’s fishing for information (which he doesn’t really have) or merely making a casual observation.  And so he just nods mutely again, hopes she’ll take that for a sign that he’s not really feeling up to idle conversation. _

_ But apparently Tony is, as he’s closing his eyes tiredly as she is seemingly absorbed in reading over his charts and medical records.  Or maybe he’s just trying to add some depth and credence to their apparent cover story for being here together.  “My baby cousin...”  And he’s sliding an arm carefully around his shoulders, giving him an affectionate squeeze.  _

_ “When I was a kid I used to ask my mom for a little brother, and she’d always say ‘What’s wrong with your cousin Dwight?’  I remember the day he was born.  It was like getting a baby brother.  I used to push him on his Big Wheel, ride him around in the basket of this bike we had…” _

_ And it all sounds so hypnotically convincing that he can almost see it, so real – that soft, reminiscent tone of voice, the faraway look in Tony’s eyes when he looks over to furtively meet his gaze out of the corner of his eye, as if it all actually could have happened – actually had happened – like Tony actually thinks this is real – the way they had actually met and the way their relationship had started. _

And he’s not sure which thought is more disturbing – that Tony could lie so effortlessly (which of course he can, given his line of work) or that Tony is perhaps inserting him into his memories of someone else – Christopher Moltisanti perhaps, since they had apparently at one time been so close, and because of course his other cousin, Tony Blundetto, would have been too old.  But his head hurts too much to really give it too much thought.

And so instead he leans into Tony a little, pressing a little closer to his side, hoping he’s not pushing the boundaries of (fabricated) familiar affection too far, or at least hoping that Dr. Olenska either won’t notice or won’t care.

_ “It’s nice that you’re close.  Family is very important to us as well.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When I was a kid I used to ask my mom for a little brother, and she’d always say ‘What’s wrong with your cousin Dwight?’" - Tony says this, but about his actual cousin Tony Blundetto, in S5E02 - Rat Pack
> 
> You can see the clip in the YouTube video entitled "The Sopranos Tony Blundetto is back from prison HD"
> 
> "I used to push him on his Big Wheel, ride him around in the basket of this bike we had…” - Tony makes similar statements to Melfi regarding Christopher in S6E14 - Stage 5

**Author's Note:**

> The line, "Damn, we're gonna win this thing" is taken from S6E21 - Made in America.
> 
> You can see this scene in the YouTube video entitled 'The Sopranos - Agent Harris Helps Tony Soprano'


End file.
